


The three times he didn't fake it

by Shootingstarprince



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath, And John tries really hard, And Mary makes him forget, Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, But he does it because he cares about Sherlock, Depressed Sherlock, Depression, Drug Use, Drugs, Emotionally Repressed, Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Feels, Headcanon, John just wants to get over Sherlock, M/M, Mary just wants John to be happy, Mary loves John, Mycroft Holmes & Sherlock Holmes Feels, Mycroft is kind of mean, Overdose, Partly Canon, Phone Calls, Reichenbach Feels, Repressed John, Repressed Sherlock, Self-Harm, Self-Harming Sherlock, Sherlock - Freeform, Sherlock Feels, Sherlock headcanon, Sherlock's suicide attempts, Suicide Attempt, Supportive Mary, Teen Sherlock, They love each other, Understanding Mary, Young Sherlock, but it's not so simple, graphic descriptions of self-harm, painlock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-04-02
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-10-14 02:39:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 9
Words: 27,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10527108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shootingstarprince/pseuds/Shootingstarprince
Summary: //At first I planned on making these stories a part of my "Angsty Johnlock One Shot Collection" but then I decided to make this into it's own short story because I actually really like this headcanon and I wanted to write more about it.//[THE THREE TIMES HE DIDN'T FAKE IT]The first time Sherlock tried to end his life was when he was 19-years-old and felt so very alone.The second time he was twenty-three and still hadn't found the meaning of his existence.The third time he was twenty-six and he just wanted to feel something else than numbness.//So basically, these stories are my headcanons about Sherlock's suicide attempts A.K.A the three times he didn't fake it. There will also be a chapter about the Reichenbach Fall and how the people close to him felt when it happened and a chapter about him coming back + the aftermath of everything when he finally tells John that even though he faked the Fall, there were times when he didn't fake anything. Expect a lot of feels and fluff in the later chapters//





	1. Overdose

Sherlock Holmes, 19 years old, was sat on his bathroom floor, in his small and dirty apartment that he very rarely left. In his hand, the boy had a bottle of depression medicine and on the floor, next to him was a bottle of water. It was now or never. If he didn’t do this now, he would never be able to do it. He chuckled bitterly. What an ironic way to die. To die because of the medicine that was supposed to stop exactly this from happening. Maybe Mycroft would even laugh a bit at his funeral, at his little brother’s last joke.

With shaky hands, the young man opened the bottle and poured his hand full of pills. This was the last time he’d have to eat these goddamn disgusting things that made him feel like nothing. He took a deep breath, threw the pills in his mouth and drank water on top. He had to chew some of the pills but he managed to get them all down and leaned against the shower wall. Soon he would feel dizzy, he might have hallucinations and then he would just stop being. That thought calmed him down and the fear of death was slowly starting to disappear completely. He knew that the meds started working when he started feeling empty and scarily calm, aside from the crazy pounding of his heart. He had read that his heart could expand too much and basically explode as a result of the overdose. It was kind of scary, but Sherlock told himself that this was the easiest way out. After this there would be no more tiredness, no more sadness. No matter what happened after death, Sherlock would finally stop being so damn tired and that was enough for him.

He distantly heard how a door opened and closed somewhere and someone called out his name. He was calmed down by the thought of someone coming to take him away from this life. Would there be something after death or would this 'someone' that was coming to take him away just grab him by the hand and lead him to blissful nothingness? He fought to keep his eyes open. He wanted to see who was coming to him from the other side. The bathroom door opened and someone stood there, but who? It came closer. Sherlock heard noises, but they felt like they were coming from somewhere very far away. The figure was now crouched in front of him and was shaking him. Who was it? Sherlock tried to focus his vision.

“Sherlock, wake up!” Rang out suddenly, bright and loud, through the curtain of mist that seemed to be covering Sherlock completely from head to toe and the stinging pain on his cheek felt like it had really happened. Was he still in the real world?

“Sherlock Holmes, now you will keep your eyes open! Don’t you dare die, do you hear me?! Don’t you dare!” Felt like it came from right next to his ear. Mycroft? What was Mycroft doing here? Was his brother dead too. No, no, he couldn’t be. Was Mycroft really here with him or was he seeing and hearing things that weren’t really there?

Another painfully loud noise pierced through the veil of numbness. A siren. It was really close now. An ambulance? Hands grabbed him and lifted. No, no, no, they were going to keep him alive. Sherlock screamed, but he wasn’t sure if he even made a sound and he tried to fight back, but he could barely move. He was set on his side and he felt himself throwing up and trembling all over.

“The situation is critical,” He heard, before he drifted into unconsciousness.

\---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

When the young man woke up and opened his eyes, he didn’t know where he was. Everything was bright and white. “Help,” he gasped out and coughed, shaking as he felt panic and anxiety taking over:” Is anybody there?”

He tried to get up but his body felt weak and a disgusting feeling came over him like a wave. Was he alive or not? He hoped not.

“Oh, Sherlock!” Came a high-pitched voice from somewhere near him and he was pulled into a hug. A sweet smell filled his senses and he felt warm. His mother. For a moment he almost felt happy, until he realized that if his mother was there, it meant that he was alive. He had failed, even at ending his own life.

“No,” he whispered and tried to push his mother away. When the woman let go of him and stepped away, a worried expression clouding her kind features, Sherlock said even louder: “No!”

“Sherlock,” The woman said strictly an shook her head, sighing: “It’s not your time yet. You’re not meant to die yet. Otherwise Mycroft wouldn’t have found you in time. Everybody has their time to go and yours isn’t here yet.”

“I don’t care if it’s not my time yet! I wanted to die and Mycroft shouldn’t have intervened,” Sherlock said bitterly and wiped his eyes on his arm angrily, as tears started to gather to the corners of his bright eyes. His mother sounded so very tired when she asked:” Why, Sherlock? Why would you want to die?”

“Because I’m tired mom,” Sherlock replied, looking the other way. “What are you tired of?” She questioned, looking incredibly sad.

“Just this. Life. Everything,” Sherlock sighed deeply, turning his icy gaze back to her and said coldly: “I want to speak to Mycroft now. I’m tired of you too.”

HIs mother nodded and let out a heartbreaking sniffle, turning on her heel and walking out of the room quickly. After a few minutes or so, the door opened again and Mycroft came into the room, looking angrier than ever. He shut the door after himself and glared at Sherlock.

“Beautiful day, isn’t i--” Sherlock started, trying to lighten the mood, but was interrupted by Mycroft who started speaking, gritting his teeth:” Save it, Sherlock. What you have just done was extremely irresponsible and absolutely idiotic. I never thought you would stoop this low.”

“I can explain,” Sherlock tried. Mycroft scoffed and laughed bitterly:” Of course you can. There is always an explanation with you, Sherlock. However I’m tired of your poor attempts at trying to justify the way you act. You are not a child anymore and I’m so very tired of looking after you like you are one.”

“Well I guess then you should’ve just let me die,” Sherlock replied angrily: “You should’ve just left me there to die and you wouldn’t have to worry anymore. Problem solved!”

“Quit playing the victim, for God’s sake, it’s pathetic,” Mycroft spat: “Poor Sherlock, he’s so misunderstood! It’s time to grow up and get over stupid things like a dead dog!”

“Don’t speak about Redbeard like that,” Sherlock said quietly. Mycroft laughed again, though he obviously saw nothing funny about this situation and shook his head: “It’s time to start living in the moment, brother. You can be a cold and a hurtful person, Sherlock, but don’t forget that I can be just as cold. You will stay here on suicide watch and I will make sure that even if you get a million panic attacks, you will never use depression or anxiety medicine again. Quit pitying yourself and get a grip.”

And when he was done speaking, his raised his hand to silence Sherlock who was about to protest. Mycroft turned on his heel, sighing deeply and walked back to the door, opening it. He looked back once more and said: “Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it.” And then he left the room, slamming the door after himself, leaving Sherlock, really truly alone again.


	2. Jump

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter finally translated from Finnish to English. Un-beta'd so all mistakes are mine.
> 
> [Kind of contains a spoiler for s4ep2 but not really though? If you haven't seen the episode you might not understand what Mycroft was going to tell Sherlock but you won't be spoiled]
> 
> [Also, some very slight Sherlock/Lestrade in this chapter if you squint really hard. They're just friends in this fic (no hate to the ship though, it's quite cute, I just prefer Johnlock and Mystade) , but I guess this could be interpreted differently]

Sherlock Holmes, 23 years old, stood on a bridge, watching the slight traffic around seven metres underneath him with mild interest. The clock was four in the morning, or was it six after all? Sherlock hadn’t looked at the clock for at least a week. It might’ve been Monday, but it could have possibly been Thursday as well. The young man was no longer quite sure about how quickly time passed. The air was cold, so it was easy to assume that it was spring, but Sherlock wasn’t sure which month. But that didn’t matter now. Because next month, the next day, after a few hours, he would no longer exist. Because he was going to jump off a bridge.

This wasn’t something Sherlock had planned for a long time, but the man had just been walking around, trying to keep himself busy so that he wouldn’t fall asleep and have terrible nightmares that made him afraid of sleeping. Then he had seen the bridge and thought: “If you were to jump off, you wouldn’t survive.”

So, now he got up on the railing and sat down. There was nobody around to stop him from jumping, so he wasn’t in a hurry. Still, he didn’t want to wait for too long, so that he wouldn’t chicken out. ‘Do it now,’ he told himself, taking a deep, shaky breath and just as he was about to let himself fall, the phone rang. Why shouldn’t he answer? He had time and if somebody wanted to say something to him, there was no better moment for it than this. He dug the phone from his pocket and answered, without even checking who the caller was.

“Sherlock Holmes,” he said into the speaker, sounding weary. The voice in the other end was slightly panicked when it said: “Don’t do it.”

“Mycroft?” Sherlock let out a surprised squeak, looking around frantically. Where the hell was his brother and how on Earth did he know what Sherlock was about to do? It was a bit dark, but he could still clearly see his surroundings, but he couldn’t see anyone anywhere. So he asked Mycroft where he was. His brother was silent for a moment, before replying: “That doesn’t matter. But what matters is that you don’t do this. Don’t jump, Sherlock, don’t be so stupid. Think a little bit, come on think.”

“Are you seriously asking me for something?” Sherlock chuckled and heard how Mycroft took in a sharp breath, sounding anxious: “Yes I am, Sherlock. Don’t do this to mum and dad. Don’t do this to me, please.”

Sherlock laughed loudly and very bitterly: “You don’t give two shits, Mycroft. You’re lying to me because you want something from me again.” He leaned forward, holding onto the railing with one hand, his fingers slipping slightly: “Don’t worry, because soon you don’t have to ask for anything from me again. I know it must be embarrassing for you to ask help from your fuck-up of a brother.”

“Sherlock, stay exactly where you are! Don’t move!” Mycroft nearly screamed into the phone, his heart pounding against his ribcage. His voice shook slightly when he spoke again: “I’m not lying, Sherlock. I swear to you, I would not lie. Not about something like this.”

Sherlock felt like his heart had just skipped at least five beats and his phone nearly slipped out of his hand. Mycroft truly sounded horrified. Slowly, Sherlock pulled himself back into a sitting position on the railing. He stayed quiet for a moment, listening how Mycroft’s breath hitched in the other end. Then finally he asked, tiredly: “What do you want from me Mycroft?”

“I want you to stop thinking such stupidities and get down from that railing,” Mycroft replied quietly, his voice still shaking. Sherlock shook his head, sighing: “No. I’m dying today. I decided that.”

“Listen first!” Mycroft squeaked hastily: “Let’s talk first, brother please.” He tried to think of something he could do to avoid the unavoidable, until the police patrol he had sent out to get Sherlock. He just wished they would make it in time, looking at the traffic cams anxiously. Sherlock sighed very deeply and asked: “What do you want to talk about then? Hurry up now, soon there will be too much traffic and my intention is not to scar anyone by jumping in front of their car.”

“A-Ah, do you remember--” Mycroft started, feverishly trying to figure out what he could talk about for five minutes or so: “Do you remember when you started school? It was a terrible day for us both.” Sherlock chuckled lightly and wiped his face in his arm: “I remember that I clung onto your sleeve for the first two weeks.”

“You were terribly annoying,” Mycroft said: “And you haven’t changed at all.”

“Some nice words for a person who’s about to jump off a bridge, brother mine,” Sherlock replied, laughing softly. Mycroft took a deep breath and explained: “I just meant that you need me just as much now as you did back then.” Sherlock snorted and protested: “No, I don’t. Not anymore. Not in a few minutes.”

“I suppose so,” Mycroft answered, trying to keep calm. ‘Don’t let him know that the police are coming,’ he kept telling himself. He checked his watch, annoyed by the fact that his hand was shaking. The patrol would be there soon. He only had to keep stalling for a moment longer. 

“Sherlock, listen to me,” he said and looked at the computer screens that showed video from the traffic cameras near the bridge. The police would take less than a minute to get there: “Listen carefully.”

“I’m tired, Mycroft,” Sherlock replied: “Hurry up. I’m going to jump.”

“Wait, I need to tell you something important first. You need to know this even if it’s the last thing you’ll ever know,” Mycroft sighed shakily and heard Sherlock let out a sharp breath. Was he really going to reveal to Sherlock the truth about their childhood and about Redbeard? He needed to keep stalling. He had to tell: “When we were little, it wasn’t always just the two of us, we had a--” He checked the camera again and saw that the police car was already turning to the bridge and the officers started to get out. He didn’t have to tell after all. He just hoped that the idiots wouldn’t make too much noise now. Mycroft sighed deeply, out of relief and said: “Sherlock, you must understand that I’m doing this because it’s for the best.”

“Doing what?” Sherlock questioned, raising his eyebrows. He turned his head to look behind himself, but he was too late. His arms were grabbed from both sides and he was pulled down from the railing. Understanding filled his mind. Mycroft had been stalling for this. He had been stalling so that he could send someone to stop Sherlock from jumping. Sherlock screamed as loudly as he could and tried to struggle, but only managed to fall into the hard ground.

“Let go of me! Let go!” He yelled, still holding onto the phone in his hand tightly as he screamed into the speaker: “Why can’t you just leave me alone, Mycroft?!”

He cursed and screamed, trying to kick the officers and get out of their grip for at least fifteen minutes until he was suddenly all out of energy and he just cried. It had been years since he had last cried properly and now he was completely hysterical. He didn’t even register when he was helped into the police car. He didn’t know how long it took for him to calm down, but when he just didn’t have anymore tears to shed, his hands still trembled like leaves in a spring storm. When the tears stopped blurring his line of sight, he saw two officers, a man and a woman, speaking in low voices by the car and another officer, and older man, standing further away, talking with someone on the phone. Sherlock coughed and one of the younger officers turned towards him, looking surprised. He had a bruise underneath his eye and Sherlock realized that he must have kicked or hit the man during his struggling. Still, the man smiled brightly and walked over to him, leaning against the car to be on his level.

“Greg Lestrade,” he said, offering his hand for Sherlock to shake. Sherlock took his hand and shook it and felt too embarrassed to ask for the man’s first name again even though he hadn’t heard it and breathed out shakily: “Sherlock Holmes.”

“Well, Sherlock Holmes, you can hit pretty well,” Lestrade grinned, pointing to his black eye. Sherlock looked down, feeling even more embarrassed now, but Lestrade just patted him on the shoulder and said that he didn’t mind it at all. Sherlock swallowed thickly and looked back up, before asking tiredly: “Can I go home now?”

“Sadly, no,” Lestrade replied, looking truly apologetic: “You did just try to jump off a bridge.”

“But I’m alright now!” Sherlock whined in protest, but Lestrade shook his head at him, explaining: “I can’t change the rules. You have to go to the hospital and you will be on suicide watch for a week, possibly more considering that pretty bad panic attack you just had. Also, your brother wants to see you.”

“I don’t want to see him,” Sherlock said stubbornly and Lestrade laughed softly: “That’s no longer my responsibility, but I do have to take you to the hospital.”

Sherlock nodded shakily and just realized how cold it was outside and that he was only wearing a thin t-shirt. He hadn’t noticed in all of his panic before, but now he felt like he was freezing to the bone. He wrapped his arms around himself and tried to get the blood flowing in his arms by rubbing them, but it wasn’t working. Lestrade noticed this and without a second of hesitation, took off his jacket and draped it over Sherlock’s shoulders.

“You didn’t have to--” Sherlock tried to say, even as he wrapped the jacket around himself tighter. Lestrade shook his head and smiled fondly: “Yes I did. It would blow if you got sick after just surviving something like that. Besides, I still have a long-sleeved shirt. It’s alright, Holmes.”

Sherlock smiled slightly and thanked him, though his teeth were clanking from the cold. Lestrade explained that he had to talk through a few things with the older officer and then he would drive Sherlock to the hospital and left to speak with the other man, giving Sherlock a chance to really look at him properly.

Lestrade was an easy man to read. He wore his heart on his sleeve and showed exactly what he felt. Sherlock could easily read him like an open book. He was older than Sherlock, but not by more than four years or so. He was fairly new at his job and obviously very proud of what he did. He loved his job, you could easily see it from the way he acted and how much respect he seemed to be showing towards the older officer he was speaking to at the moment, but also from how spotless and ironed his uniform was. He obviously treated it like it was a gift from God himself, which Sherlock found quite amusing. He also seemed very respectful and calm and his kindness had made Sherlock feel warm in all of his coldness. So shortly, Lestrade was a good person and the complete opposite of Sherlock.

Lestrade came back quickly, still smiling slightly as he got in the driver’s side and told Sherlock to buckle his seatbelt, which he somehow managed to do even with his still trembling hands making it a lot more difficult than it should’ve been. Lestrade started the car and drove off, tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. They both stayed silent for a moment, until the officer couldn’t help but ask: “Why?”

“What do you mean ‘why’?” Sherlock asked, though he knew what Lestrade was talking about. The older man sighed and scratched the back of his neck, before saying: “What drives a person to that point? What made you feel like suicide was the only way out?”

“Oh, no, no it’s not the only way. Not even close. There are hundreds, if not thousands of better ways, but truthfully suicide is the easiest of them all,” Sherlock replied, shrugging in a careless manner. Lestrade shook his head and said: “There’s nothing easy about death, Holmes.”

“Yes, there is when you’ve got nothing to lose,” Sherlock sighed tiredly and saw how Lestrade tensed up and knew that he really wanted to argue, so he stopped him by adding: “Let me enlighten you. Imagine that you’re standing on a cliff. Behind you is a fall you cannot survive if you choose to jump, on both sides, there are tall, sharp rocks that you could climb but it would take time and you could fall or hurt yourself badly and in front of you there’s a person with a knife coming closer, second by second. You’re unarmed and truly you’ve got nowhere to run because even if you choose to climb, the person could still catch you and if you fight you could die or get seriously injured. If you jump, it’s a fall and then it’s over, no pain really. Now, which way is the easiest? Perhaps not the best, but the easiest? And that, Lestrade, is depression.”

Lestrade stayed silent, his shoulders still tensed, looking grim. Sherlock pressed himself against the seat heavily and studied his expression through the rearview mirror for a moment before asking: “Who was it?”  
“What are you talking about?” Lestrade questioned, looking puzzled and confused. He really didn’t understand what Sherlock was talking about, so the brunette replied bluntly: “The person who committed suicide? A family member? A partner or a friend perhaps?”

“Wh--” Lestrade squeaked and Sherlock could see his surprised expression through the mirror. A fairly normal reaction to his deductions really. Lestrade grip on the steering wheel tightened until his knuckles turned white and Sherlock realized that now he had crossed a line and been way too blunt about the whole thing, so he apologized: “I’m sorry, you must have been close.”

“It was the summer of 1998. He was my best friend. Slit his wrists and all he left behind was a note that said ‘I’m sorry for the change of plans, mate.’ He had just turned eighteen, he was so damn smart with a bright future ahead of him and we were supposed to move in together--Ah, I’m sorry, I don’t know why I started ranting to you about it,” Lestrade finally said and sniffled, but didn’t cry. Sherlock figured that he must’ve cried about it way too much already and he just had no more tears left. He assured Lestrade that he wasn’t bothered by his ranting and the other man nodded in reply, trying to collect himself. They were quiet for a while, until Lestrade seemed to have calmed himself down again: “I couldn’t save him, but today I saved you and don’t think for a second that I will ever in my life regret pulling you down from that railing. You have your whole life ahead of you”

“Mhh, I suppose so. I’ll thank you for coat but you shouldn’t expect me to thank for, hm, saving me, because I won’t,” Sherlock replied, looking out of the window. Lestrade glanced at him and shrugged: “You don’t have to thank me. Just promise that you won’t try something like that again and we’re good.” Sherlock scoffed and shook his head, a few of his dark, too-long curls falling to frame his pale face as he spoke: “I don’t make promises.”

“That’s alright. Because one day you will and I can wait until then,” Lestrade said calmly and smiled a bit. Sherlock looked out of the window and could already see the hospital lights in the distance. Strange man, that Lestrade, he thought and glanced at the man quickly. Strange, but very kind and possibly someone Sherlock could even call a friend eventually. Maybe. Sherlock leaned his head against the window when his phone beeped and he noticed that he was still holding it. He opened the screen lock and groaned when he saw a huge crack in the middle of it. He opened the text message.

To: Sherlock  
From: Mycroft  
5.32 AM  
“Your life is not your own. Keep your hands off it.”


	3. Afraid

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Woop, woop, your boy Elliot is on fire. I didn't even have this chapter pre-written in Finnish and I managed to write this in two nights. Good job me.
> 
> [Finally, some Mystrade in this chapter too, yay]  
> [And yeah if you squint and make your own deductions about my writing you might see a bit of Sherlock/Lestrade in this one too, but they're just friends and Lestrade just really wants to save Sherlock]

Sherlock Holmes, 26 years old, was sitting on his living room floor and somehow his arms were covered in blood. If he was asked how it all got to this point, he would blame the drugs. He had never meant to cut so deep, but his vision was blurry because of the drugs. Or was it tears? He hadn’t started tonight, intending to hurt himself at all. He just wanted to feel something and usually drugs did that for him. And, oh, had he felt. He had felt so much at once and maybe it really wasn’t the drugs, maybe it was the alcohol or perhaps the combination of the two, but he had felt, like he was feeling for the first time in his entire life and suddenly there had been a knife in his hand and then blood. He looked down at his wrists, and God there was blood everywhere. There was blood on the rug, on his pants and on the floor and it just kept coming. His hands shook. It wasn’t stopping. Usually it stopped after a while, but now blood kept coming out and this didn’t feel right. Sherlock felt dizzy and when he looked at the mess he’d made, he wanted to throw up. He should stop the bleeding, but with what? Or should he really? Maybe he should just lay down and let the blood flow. The rug was ruined anyway so he didn’t have to worry about that. He was sleepy. He felt like he really should just sleep now. He felt a stab of pain in his heart, like he was sad. But he didn’t feel sad, no, it was something else, something different, something more. Fear. It was fear that he felt. He was scared, because now, he would really bleed dry on his living room floor and it would happen slowly and nobody would find him. He was scared to die because now he was aware that it was happening. He was aware of the life seeping out of his body, in the form of blood, onto his white rug. He felt himself starting to panic and looked around for something, anything to stop the bleeding. His eyes fell on a roll of paper towels on his table and he reached to grab it, hastily taking a few pieces of paper and pressing them onto his wrist. The blood seeped through the thin paper in seconds and he realized it wasn’t enough.

He possibly needed stitches or at least bandages and he tried to stand, but was overcome with a wave of dizziness caused by the loss of blood, alcohol and drugs. He couldn’t go anywhere and he would die. He would die and now he hadn’t technically even tried. He had been doing alright too, nearly had a job with the police even and now he would die and he was so scared. Then he spotted his phone on the very same table where the paper towels had been just moments ago. Had he been listening to music? Whatever. He took the phone and winced. Calling the emergency number was too embarrassing. They would judge him, maybe throw him into jail. He couldn’t call Mycroft, no, he would be angry. Or Molly from the hospital he’d been to last time, she would probably be angry too. A name flashed across his mind. Who? Who wouldn’t be mad? Who would get there in time?

He went into his contacts, shakily pressing the dial button on the name he wanted to call. The phone beeped. Once. Twice. Thrice. He wouldn’t answer. Of course, he wouldn’t, he was busy with work. He probably had a night shift too, he wouldn’t pick up and Sherlock would die, he would d--Suddenly there was a voice in the other end of the line and Sherlock sighed in relief: “Lestrade.”

“Sherlock? Why are you calling me at this hour?” The other man asked and Sherlock laughed weakly: “I’m in a really bad position now. I’m high, I’m drunk, I’m calling a police officer to talk about it and oh, I’m bleeding out.”

“Hey, hey, slow down. What do you mean you’re bleeding out, Sherlock?” Lestrade questioned, worry clear in his voice. Of course he didn’t care about the drugs or the alcohol. He was worried. Sherlock smiled to himself. Somebody worried about him. Then he remembered the situation he was in and said: “I cut---I think I cut a vein and there’s blood everywhere. I can’t stand. The blood won’t stop and I think I’m dying.”

“Jesus Christ, Sherlock, call the ambulance and do it now!” Lestrade exclaimed and Sherlock heard that he was out of breath, running. Why was he running? Sherlock shook his head though the other man couldn’t see him and replied: “Too embarrassing. They’ll judge me.”

“Then I’m calling you an ambulance. What is your address again?” Lestrade asked him and he still sounded so very worried that Sherlock told him. The reply he got was: “I’m calling the ambulance and I’ll be there in five minutes. Try to stay awake and press something on the cuts so you don’t bleed dry.” And then silence. The call had ended. Sherlock wondered if Lestrade would call Mycroft too and tell him. He wondered if the officer would even make it in time. Maybe he would see Molly at the hospital and maybe she would be angry at him. Or did she work at the morgue now? Sherlock recalled that she had said something like that the last time he’d been at the hospital because of drugs. So, maybe if he died, he’d see her at the hospital. Funny thought. At least then she couldn’t be mad at him. Being angry at a corpse probably wasn’t very effective. 

What had Lestrade said again? Oh yes, try to stop the bleeding. But it didn’t stop. Sherlock took off his hoodie and pressed his wrists against the fabric. The hoodie was black, so he couldn’t see if the blood was coming through it or not and maybe that was better. He leaned against his couch and blinked. The room was very foggy. Since when did it get so foggy? Or had it always been so foggy? Maybe the blood loss was behind this. Sherlock’s eyes slipped closed and he really, really wanted to sleep now. But Lestrade had told him to stay awake. He was really tired though. He briefly wondered how Lestrade would get in because Sherlock couldn’t open the door for him, but a wave of dizziness and the want to throw up cleared his head of all thoughts. 

He distantly heard the wailing of sirens somewhere quite far and wondered if they would get here in time. The sleepiness was overbearing and he just wanted to let himself fall and give in. Maybe he should after all. Maybe it wouldn’t be as scary as he had thought at first. Then there was a loud banging on his door. Who was that? Was that Lestrade? He couldn’t get up, couldn’t call out. He closed his eyes and leaned his head back against the couch, groaning quietly. God, his head hurt and the fact that the banging was getting louder didn’t really help with the pain. Then there was a different kind of bang. The kind of noise his door made when he slammed it open when he came home after a shitty day. He opened his eyes and looked into the foggy entrance hall. And truly, there was Lestrade, hurrying over to him. He kneeled down next to Sherlock and grabbed both of his wrists, pressing the fabric of the hoodie against his wrists even harder and ouch, that hurt. 

“Help is almost here,” Lestrade said and though he tried to sound calm his breath was coming out in short puffs and he had trouble speaking as he was so out of breath. Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him and spoke, only now realizing how much his speech was slurring. or had it just now started to slur? No time to think about that now. Sherlock asked him: “Did you run here? And did you break down my door?”

“Yes,” Lestrade replied shortly and let out a relieved sigh when more people started pouring in and moved out of the way of the paramedics. Sherlock looked at him and secretly hoped that he wasn’t angry. They had been doing some work together during the past year, just some case solving as Sherlock easily noticed things other people didn’t and Sherlock didn’t want that to end because this was the closest thing to a friendship he’d ever had in his entire life.

Sherlock was helped onto a stretcher and he wasn’t sure if he was still in his apartment, the hallway or outside. Everything was melting together into a mush of colors and voices and he let himself close his eyes finally. His life was in their hands now and there was nothing he could do. He hoped for the first time ever that he would stay alive. Not for himself, no, he wasn’t even that scared anymore and slipping into a comfortable space of nothingness was actually quite calming, but for Lestrade, who had saved him before and to whom owed his life. He didn’t want Lestrade to lose another friend- Was he Lestrade’s friend?-The same way he had lost his best friend in 1998. It wouldn’t be fair. And maybe, just a little, tiny bit, Sherlock wished he would stay alive, just for himself. Maybe a tiny bit of him wished that he would live because there was a future for him now. And that was his last thought before everything went black and silent. Was he dead?  
\-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

“Agh, this waiting is agonizing!”

“He’ll wake up soon, you heard what the nurse said. And when he does wake up, he’s going to be confused and scared. Don’t yell at him.”

“He’s my brother and I will do what I see fit.”

“Yes, but he’s also my friend and may I remind you that he could be dead if I hadn’t got there in time. And trust me, I want to be angry too, but when has that ever solved anything?”

“Ah--I’m sorry...This is just all too familiar for me. Each time I think that he has started to get his life together, we end up back in this bloody hospital.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. But he will be up on his feet again and I will try my best to keep him out of the hospital. I should’ve seen this coming.”

“Don’t blame yourself by any means. I should keep him under a better watch.”

“Oh, but you’ve done so much for him already. You saved him twice, I heard. Besides, the life of a politic must be tiring on it’s own, with nobody to take care of you so it’s understandable that you can’t be keeping an eye on your brother at all times.”

“I can handle myself quite well, Inspector, thank you.”

Sherlock woke up to the buzz of conversation by his bedside. He recognized the two voices as his brother and Lestrade and slowly blinked his eyelids open. They felt heavy and the light in the room was way too bright. He groaned loudly and closed his eyes again. He had a hammering headache as well. He fought against the urge to kick Mycroft when he spoke: “Well, little brother, look who’s awake. Headache?”

“Piss off,” He groaned and blinked his eyes open again to see the two men standing next to his bed. Lestrade tried to look serious, but turned his head away to hide the fact that Sherlock’s comment had made him snort. Mycroft fixed him with a glare, before turning back to his brother, eyebrow raised: “You have a lot of explaining to do.”

“Let him rest, Mycroft,” Lestrade said calmly and looked at Sherlock for a moment. He didn’t smile, but Sherlock could see that he was relieved. Sherlock thanked him quietly and Lestrade shook his head, looking the other way: “Don’t think that you’re automatically forgiven now. You still have to answer to both of us.” Mycroft smiled slightly, trying to make it look like he was being smug, but really, it was plain as day that he was smiling at Lestrade. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows and looked at Lestrade, then back to Mycroft again. His brother was smiling at somebody? And unless, Sherlock had missed the punchline, Lestrade hadn’t said anything extremely amusing. 

“Oh Lord, that’s disgusting,” Sherlock said, making a face. Both of the men looked at him, matching looks of confusion on their faces. Mycroft was the first to speak and ask what on Earth Sherlock was talking about. Sherlock laughed weakly, his throat hurt, and replied, his tone smug: “You like him, don’t you?”

“Wha--What? Where would you get an idea like that. What nonsense! Are you still high?” Mycroft stammered, even as a dark blush rose to his normally pale cheeks. Sherlock smirked at him and it only got wider when he saw Lestrade hiding a smile of his own. Mycroft gaze went from Sherlock to Lestrade, then back to Sherlock and he cleared his throath, before saying: “Talking about high. Sherlock, did you make a list?”

“Forgot.” Sherlock said and shrugged dismissively. Mycroft looked ready to choke him to death for being so careless and idiotic, but instead he excused himself and said that he needed some fresh air. So basically, he went out to have a cigarette, maybe two to calm his nerves. Lestrade looked after him, then back at Sherlock and said: “There’s nothing going on between us.”

“There could be,” Sherlock replied and Lestrade cleared his throat. Sherlock looked up at him and added: “I don’t judge. The only thing I found disgusting was my brother’s heart eyes at you. He’s not one to really smile at people, or really, uh, be with people. But I’m really in no position to judge anybody’s preferences, especially another man’s preference towards men as I have never been interested in women myself. And yes, before you correct me, I know you’re not gay. Heteroflexible or you just don’t care, it’s all the same. Just thought I’d make it clear to you that my brother seems to be interested in you and you’re possibly the first person he has ever been interested in. He would never tell you that himself, so I figured.”

Lestrade looked at him for a moment and shook his head. He was still angry at Sherlock for the stunt he had pulled, but he couldn’t help a small fond smile from forming on his lips as he said: “You should probably rest. You have to explain many things to many people tomorrow.”

“Yes,” Sherlock nodded, sighing tiredly. He understood that Lestrade didn’t want to talk about it. Now that he thought about it, he realized that this was the first time he had ever admitted his own lack of interest towards women to anyone that really mattered. So if somebody, he knew what it felt like to not want to discuss these things. He was just glad that Lestrade didn’t seem to hate him now and that was enough. The officer turned and got ready to leave, when Sherlock remembered something and asked: “I guess I’m losing my job now, if it could be called that.”

“Go to rehab, sober up and the place is still open,” Lestrade said as he walked over to the door and opened it. Before stepping out though he looked back at Sherlock: “Promise me you won’t do this again? And really, go to rehab. The World is losing a brilliant man in you.”

“I don’t make promises,” Sherlock replied and averted his eyes. He wanted to promise, but making promises he couldn’t possibly keep was a waste of time. Lestrade sighed, nodded and replied: “I’ll wait then. One day, I hope you will.” And then he was out the door. One day, maybe he would really. But not today, not tomorrow. He looked up at the white ceiling and muttered under his breath, the words he had heard and read so often: “Your life is not your own, keep your hands off it.”


	4. John, After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John has nightmares. He just can't get over Sherlock.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Implied Past!John/Sherlock and Non-grahpic mentions of smut]

It all happened so quickly. The phone call. The questions. His note. And then he was falling and then he hit the pavement. John couldn't get to him, he couldn't get to Sherlock because people were in the way. 

'Let me through. He's my friend. He's my friend!'

And he got through and he saw the scarlet blood flowing onto the pavement. It looked hopeless. But maybe somehow he was alive. John reached for his hand and caught it. He had to find a pulse. There just had to be a pulse. He was pulled back by somebody and Sherlock's hand slipped out of his grasp. C'mon, get up now, get up. But Sherlock didn't move because there had been no pulse. His heart wasn't beating and he was dead. He was dead because John's words hadn't been enough. They hadn't been enough. 

"Sherlock!"

John woke up to his own screaming and bolted out of his bed like it was on fire, tripping over his feet and falling against the wall. He allowed himself to press his back against the cold surface and slid down the wall slowly, covering his mouth with his trembling hands. God, he could still feel Sherlock's hand in his. His hand had still been warm, but there had been no pulse. John wanted to scream. He wanted to break everything in this small room at 221B Baker Street. In the flat he had once shared with Sherlock. His best friend. His everything. John choked back a sob, but it didn't help. His breath was trembling and hot tears streamed down his face. He hated this. He hated how vivid the memory of crimson blood, staining the ground and sticking to Sherlock's curls was in his mind. He tried to catch his breath and groaned when all he could do was sniffle loudly. He forced himself to stand and no, he wasn't going back to bed. He went out of his room and downstairs, hoping that somehow, Sherlock would be there, doing some dumb experiment. And he would look at John when he walked into the kitchen, really look at him and smile a little bit and John would know that it had just been a dream, that Sherlock was alive and well. And John would hug him and be alright again. He would pull back and stare into Sherlock' eyes for a moment and then he would just stop caring if people would talk and he would kiss Sherlock. And he would be pieced back together again. 

But of course, Sherlock wasn't in the kitchen. All that was waiting for John in there was the smell of old food and a mountain of dishes in the sink he just couldn't bring himself to wash. He didn't want to drink or eat anything. He felt sick to his stomach after that nightmare. He should just go back to his bed and stare at the ceiling like every other night. He dragged himself out of the kitchen and glanced into the hall, at the door of Sherlock's room. The last thing they'd done before Sherlock's death was fight. John had been terrible. And Sherlock had jumped. Because of him, Sherlock had jumped. John leaned against the kitchen doorframe heavily, his breath hitching. He should've been with him. He should've been there and faced Moriarty with Sherlock or forced Sherlock to go with him. He shouldn't have left him alone. He shouldn't have. But he had. And there was no way he could change that now. 

He covered his mouth with his hand and screamed into it. He hated this. He hated being so sad again. He hated hating himself again. He quieted down and just stood there for a moment, staring forward in the dark, blindly. Slowly, he started walking towards Sherlock's room, stopping at the door. He placed his hand on the handle and pushed the door open. 

The smell was different. Fresh, with a hint of tobacco. Sherlock had smoked in the room, though John had told him not to. He smiled a bit, sadly. Sherlock never did do what he was told. He stepped into the room and looked around. He hadn't been in here many times. Twice in fact. Once, when he had been helping Sherlock find something, for a case John couldn't even remember. Must've been some legal paperwork or something, he really couldn't recall. And the second time, they had been drunk. Very, very drunk. Still, John could remember it a lot clearer than the first time he'd been here. He remembered, Sherlock giggling, honest-to-god fucking giggling and pulling John into the room with him and John had followed, laughing as well and stumbling over his feet until somehow he'd ended up down on the bed with Sherlock on top of him, lips pressed together. He remembered the fumbling of clothes, laughing quietly and shushing each other. He remembered the feeling of Sherlock's skin underneath his fingers, the awkward, drunk touches, the nonsense whispered into each other's ears. There might've been an 'I love you' or two in there somewhere as well, John wasn't completely sure of that, but he remembered so much of it, nearly everything. And well, he also remembered how he had freaked out about it in the morning and left the room. He remembered how Sherlock had come out of his room at four PM and how John hadn't been able to look at him in the eyes. Sherlock had wanted to talk about it. John hadn't. He remembered how he had blown up at Sherlock and told him that it had meant nothing. That he'd been drunk and that he hadn't known what he was doing. That Sherlock could've been anyone and it just simply didn't matter. He remembered how Sherlock had looked like John had just hit him. No, he'd looked worse. Still, he had told John 'Of course', but the sadness in his eyes had betrayed him. John remembered how he had happened to walk past Sherlock's door that night and heard him cursing at himself and sniffling. 

'Stupid'  
'Worthless'  
'Goddamn idiot'

John had wanted to go in. But he hadn't. And he'd just left Sherlock alone with these things again. Just because he had been so terrified to admit to himself how much Sherlock meant to him. They had acted like nothing had happened, after a few days, but Sherlock's walls had been up, he'd been distant and calculating. John remembered the silence. And he hadn't said anything to fill up that silence. He should've. He could've. But he hadn't. And all of that had led up to the fall. He had pushed Sherlock to the breaking point and then the whole mess with Moriarty had made him snap in half. 

John sat down on Sherlock's bed and felt the sheets under his fingers, sighing shakily. If he would've just said something. Right now, he would give anything to tell Sherlock 'I love you' or 'It meant so much, Sherlock. It wasn't nothing.' If he had just told Sherlock that he was afraid of what people would say. Sherlock would've understood that. Oh God, John had been so blind. He laid down on Sherlock's bed and hated himself for feeling safe, wrapped up in his scent. He closed his eyes. He didn't deserve sleep, especially in this bed, but he could hate himself for it in the morning, like he already did. And he fell asleep, repeating to himself the same words he'd heard Sherlock telling himself that one night. 

'Stupid'  
'Worthless'  
'Goddamn idiot'


	5. Lestrade and Mycroft, After The Fall

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lestrade is angry at everything and Mycroft needs to focus.

Greg Lestrade had not slept in weeks. Or well, he had, just around an hour or two each night and each of those hours haunted by nightmares. Nightmares, where Sherlock was standing on the roof. Nightmares, where Sherlock was laying on the pavement, dead. Nightmares, of those words John had told him Sherlock had said into the phone, in his "note".

He was sitting on his couch, smoking his fifth cigarette, though it was only 9 AM, not caring that he'd woved to stop and how he could get cancer. He would probably deserve it. He hadn't believed Sherlock, he had gone to arrest him. And Sherlock had killed himself. Because he'd felt that nobody believed in him. And now, Lestrade believed every word. He couldn't bring himself to even doubt that Sherlock had been telling the truth about Moriarty. But his belief was too little and way too late. 

Twice, he had saved Sherlock Holmes and what for? To drive him to jump of a roof because he'd been following orders. Following idiotic orders, day to day in all of his ignorance, not caring about the outcome. About his friend. He buried his head in his hands. He had a pounding headache from not sleeping and staying inside all the time. He hadn't spoken to anyone for a week. Donovan had tried to get him to cheer up, by calling him and showing up at his door and at first Lestrade had let her in and talked to her, but now he'd stopped answering. Donovan meant well. To him. But she had called Sherlock a freak and been terrible to him all the time and Lestrade wanted to think that she was at least partly the reason to his fall. He just had to blame at least one person besides himself. He blamed Anderson too, for all the terrible things he'd done, but couldn't help feeling sorry for the man, who had gone completely nuts after Sherlock's death, theorizing how he could've faked it and where he was now. Each theory was worse than the other, but at least Anderson had found a way to cope, unlike Lestrade. Anderson was still working for the police, when Lestrade couldn't bear to go back to Scotland Yard, not now. He couldn't bear to do many things, like talk to John for example. He couldn't look John in the eyes and talk like he really had any right to be sad about Sherlock, when he had been one of those people who'd caused Sherlock, John's best friend to jump off a goddamn roof. John Watson had been a victim of this, just like Sherlock, even more so than the detective actually. Because now John had to live with the fact that Sherlock was dead. And Lestrade knew how difficult it was to come in terms with the fact that your best friend just wasn't there anymore. Especially if you'd had deeper feelings for that best friend. Lestrade had seen the love, the conflict in John's eyes so many times when he'd been looking at Sherlock while he thought nobody saw and he regonized it as his own. The same way, he had looked at so many people he knew, he thought he couldn't have. He wondered if he had looked at Mycroft Holmes that way. Mycroft Holmes. The person Lestrade thought he could talk to about all of this. The person he had thought would forgive him, the person he could grieve with. Now he wasn't even answering the texts Mycroft sent him. Because Mycroft was a cold, calculating person who didn't care about anything else than himself and his work. He hadn't been to Sherlock's funeral and that, Lestrade could understand, he had thought that it was hard for Mycroft, too hard to see his little brother being buried, but when he had texted Mycroft about it, the uninterested reply had been: "That was today? I was busy, so I couldn't make it."

Busy? Too busy to go to his little brother's funeral? Lestrade remembered how his hands had trembled when he read the text. But then he'd thought that maybe Mycroft just didn't want to show his feelings. He was never really good at that. So he'd called Mycroft and told him that he was there for him and that he didn't have to play a role in front of him. Mycroft hadn't sounded sad, or like he had really cried at all. His voice had been very normal, a hint annoyed when he'd said: "What I said was true. I was busy and I couldn't make it to the funeral. I will not let this distract me from my work."

Lestrade had hung up and stared at a wall for a few hours. Mycroft had texted him twice after that and asked how he was, but he had just blocked his number. It felt good to blame Mycroft for being cold and terrible. It distracted him from the painful self-hatred. He wished he could channel all of this anger into something productive. He wished he could believe in Anderson's crazy theories and join his weird club. He wished he could do something else than just sit at home. But he couldn't because he felt terrible. He sighed and lit his sixth cigarette. 

\------------------------------

Mycroft was sitting in his office, trying to focus on his work. He really did try, but Greg Lestrade was bothering him. Not physically, he wasn't texting Mycroft or anything. Mycroft wished he were. But this was his own fault as he had purposely pushed Lestrade away from himself. Of course he couldn't expect Lestrade to reply to his messages after he had been so terribly cold. But he worried about Greg. He hadn't been to work after Sherlock's death and though he was alive, it was still worrying that he never left the house. Mycroft sighed deeply and leaned back on his chair. He wasn't used to feeling lonely. He had been alone mist of his life, so he should've been used to it, but for the past few years he had been talking to Lestrade more than he'd thought he would and not just about work. And now he didn't have that anymore and it felt strangely lonely. Especially now that he didn't have Sherlock here either and had no means of contacting him, obviously. Sherlock was the reason for this all of course. The reason Mycroft had pushed Lestrade away. The reason he worried constantly. He wanted to talk to somebody about his worries, though he had been the one to send his little brother to find the members of Moriarty's network, he still worried about him every single day and now he had to worry about Greg as well. He could've told Lestrade, he really could've and possibly he should've, but then Lestrade would tell John, John would tell Mrs Hudson and she would tell all of London and that was a chain reaction their plan could not take. If it was revealed, at this point, so soon after Sherlock's supposed death that he was in fact still alive and going after Moriarty's network, everyone involved and close to Sherlock would be in grave danger and that was a risk Mycroft was not prepared to take. 

He closed his eyes and massaged his head, groaning. The headache would not go away. He hadn't been able to sleep very well. Though he had been a part of the plan and even seen Sherlock after he had jumped, but seeing him up on that roof and falling had been beyond traumatizing and scarily familiar. It had felt as if he hadn't been able to save his brother. And it was a painful thought because even as he called Sherlock an idiot, snarled at him, fought with him, he still cared about him so much. He had practically raised Sherlock as their parents had never really got to him the way he had and though he had pretended to be annoyed, but really, he had enjoyed the undivided attention and respect Sherlock had shown him, until they'd drifted apart. Mycroft sighed. He needed to focus and quit thinking about feelings. They had never meant anything to him and they shouldn't now. And they didn't.


	6. He lived

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock comes back. John is conflicted, Mary is okay with that and Lestrade is happy to have his friend back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a long-ago chapter you guys. I hope you enjoy.

John Watson met Mary Morstan. Mary made him smile, laugh sometimes even. He couldn't say that Mary made him happy, not at first at least, but Mary made him cope and she made him forget and that was good. Really good. And slowly, she started making him happy as well, or well, she created the illusion of happiness around him by making him forget all about Sherlock Holmes and most days that was enough. He was stable. A little bit broken on the inside, put together with messy stitches and band-aids. There were still nights when he thought about Sherlock and cried. But Mary held him. She never said anything, didn't tell him to stop crying. Just held him and it was good. Sometimes it just made it all so much worse because John knew that Sherlock would've done something exactly like that. Just held him in silence. He never pushed Mary away though, because he wanted to love her and yes, he did, in his own way. Mary made him forget and that just had to be enough. Of course, she was lovely and beautiful as well and John felt attracted to her, but the forgetting was the best part. Sometimes he didn't think about Sherlock for days and that was what made him buy a ring and take Mary to that way too expensive restaurant. Because he was sure that if they had a ring to bind them together, he would really truly start loving her and never think about Sherlock again. He was sure that if they were engaged, married, he would get that same thrilling feeling than he had when he'd looked into Sherlock's eyes before. It just had to work. And even if their engagement wouldn't do that, Mary would still keep him pleasantly numb and falsely happy and that just needed to be enough. 

He stammered, stumbled over his words when he tried to get his proposal out. He was nervous, of course he was. He liked Mary and wanted her to say yes, of course he did. Otherwise he wouldn't have asked. If that annoying waiter wouldn't have interrupted, he could've finally finished, but no, he'd come over with that stupid French accent of his, to talk about wine, like John gave two shits. Then John had looked up, ready to blow up at him and his heart nearly stopped. 

He couldn't mistake those eyes for anyone else. Sherlock Holmes was standing in front of him, smiling. He had to be dreaming. He felt faint and he wasn't sure if he was even breathing. Sherlock was saying something but John couldn't hear him. All he could think about was that after two years, Sherlock Holmes was alive and he was here. John didn't even register that he'd stood up and slammed his fist against the table and asked 'why?' his voice shaking. His whole body was shaking. Two years. And Sherlock was alive. Two years of crying. Two bloody years of contemplating suicide. And Sherlock fucking Holmes dared go stand there, grinning at him, making sarcastic comments at the woman who had saved him after he'd left him all alone.

The last straw was when Sherlock made a joke. John saw red and before he even noticed, he was grabbing Sherlock by the jacket, pushing him back as hard as he could. Sherlock stumbled and fell backwards and John felt extremely satisfied to hear his pained groan and see how he was trying to cover his face. It was scary how much he wanted to hurt Sherlock. He wanted to cause him the same amount of pain he had caused John by fucking faking it. And if he couldn't do it emotionally, he would do it physically. He raised his hand to punch Sherlock, just as he was pulled off of him. He snapped out of it only when they were thrown out of the restaurant. He looked at Mary, who looked back at him and then they both looked at Sherlock. 

They found themselves in a much worse, smaller restaurant, more like a diner really. And John asked who else knew, truly not caring how Sherlock had done it. And Sherlock answered truthfully. And it hurt so much John thought he was going to faint from the pain. It was like Sherlock had sliced his heart in half and stepped on it with a pair of dirty boots and then just neatly placed it back in his chest. The fact that Sherlock trusted a few hobos and Molly Hooper, of all people more than John made his blood boil. And John attacked him again. 

The next place they went to, after being kicked out of the previous one, was a smaller, shitty little coffee shop and now Sherlock was making jokes again. John couldn't believe it. He had never, in his entire life felt so conflicted. At the same time he wanted to hug Sherlock, tell him that he was forgiven, kiss him and just ask him to hold him, back at Baker Street, back at their flat. But at the same time he wanted to kill Sherlock. Really kill him and make sure that he didn't come back. Instead, he headbutt ed him and feeling his nose crack almost made him smile. He told himself that Sherlock deserved it. 

After that he called a taxi for himself and Mary. And in the cab, Mary said that she liked Sherlock. John looked at her in disbelief and though she said nothing out loud, her eyes and soft smile spoke for her. They said: "I know how you feel about him and that's alright. I will not push you to make any choices now." And John was thankful. 

He told Mary that he wouldn't see Sherlock again. Yet, he shaved off the mustache. Yet, he'd attacked a client and somewhere in his mind, he had really wished that it was Sherlock. That Sherlock would've come to see him. And Mary had been right, like she always was, because after work John had headed towards Baker Street. He really needed to see Sherlock and talk things through. But he never did make it to 221B. When he felt the drug going into his system and hands grabbing him it was too late to scream for help. And then everything went black.

When John woke up, he had no idea where he was. He felt disoriented and his limbs were too heavy to lift. He could see twigs and such around him and a heavy weight was on top of him. Was he somehow in the woods somewhere? Was there a tree on top of him? Then he heard people. Laughing, talking, ordinary people and then there was a flash of something through the twigs. Then he felt the warmth. Fire. There was fire. He was inside of a bonfire. He screamed. It hurt his lungs. He couldn't die like this, not without seeing Sherlock again. He had to see Sherlock again. Somebody had to hear him, save him. Somebody. Anybody. Sherlock. Please, Sherlock, he had to save him. John was sure that he was hallucinating when he heard a voice calling out to him and felt hands grabbing him and pulling. Fresh air. A gentle slap on his cheek. Somebody was hovering on top of him, calling him by his name. John blinked. Sherlock. Sherlock was there, looking down at him with those bright, beautiful eyes and John fainted. 

John woke up in the hospital. Sherlock was asleep in a chair next to his bed, his hand resting next to John's on the bed, like he wanted to hold it but wasn't sure if he was allowed to. John smiled to himself. He was still angry, obviously, but Sherlock was back, he was alive and he was with John now. He had stayed. 

"Sherlock," John said quietly, his throat was sore, and brushed his fingers over Sherlock's. Sherlock snapped awake and almost fell back on his chair. He blinked quickly, looking around for a while, his eyes wide and weirdly scared and then his eyes landed on John and he relaxed visibly. Then he tensed again and grabbed John's hand with both of his, holding it tightly as he said John's name softly. This wasn't his normal behavior, it was strange. He seemed jumpy, scared that John would disappear or punch him. But the look on his face, the way he was holding John's hand so tightly, his soft voice made John's heart melt. 

"John, I'm sorry. Believe that I'm sorry. I wanted to tell you but I couldn't," Sherlock told him, and was his voice actually shaking? His grip on John's hand was nearly painful: "The plan was so carefully planned, yet easy to fail and I couldn't take the risk. If I hadn't jumped... They would've shot my friends. They would've shot you, John. I couldn't let that happen. You can hate me if you want, but I will not regret what I've done. I protected my friends and I protected you. Telling you would've but you at a risk. "

"You told Molly Hooper," John said, silently and Sherlock chuckled slightly: "There wasn't a gun aimed at her head. Moriarty didn't count her as someone who mattered to me."

"Does she? Matter, I mean?" John asked, before he was able to stop himself. Sherlock looked at him for a moment, before replying: "She's my friend." John nodded in reply. He tried to understand that this had been necessary. 

"Why didn't you contact me? At all?" He asked and Sherlock looked down: "I was...afraid it could be traced back to me from your phone and they would just shoot everyone when they found out I was alive. And often I didn't even have a phone for... Various reasons." Sherlock bit his lip. He wouldn't mention the torture to anyone who didn't already know. So nobody but Mycroft and a few of his men. John didn't need to know. John nodded again and very gently squeezed Sherlock's hand back as a silent "I'm glad you're back" as he couldn't say that out loud. Not yet at least. Sherlock smiled and it was one of those, small, shy and genuine smiles of his, instead of that self-righteous grin he had plastered on his face most of the time. John couldn't help but smile back slightly. 

"You shaved it off then," Sherlock said and John looked down: "Yeah. Nobody liked it so..." Sherlock laughed softly, brushing his fingers against John's knuckles. It was inmate. Way too much so, but John didn't pull his hand away, instead pushing it towards Sherlock's calming touch. Then the door clicked open and Sherlock pulled his hands away, both of them looking up at Mary who'd stepped into the room. Sherlock smiled at her, or at least tried and stood up, saying: "I'll leave now. You two must want a moment of privacy." He walked up to the door, past Mary and turned around once more, hesitating for a moment, like he wasn't sure if what he was about to say was appropriate, but said it then: "John. Meet me at Baker Street when you're ready."

"Yes," John replied, nodding at him. Mary said her goodbyes to Sherlock and sat down next to John. She told him that he would get out today and asked if he was going to see Sherlock. John replied truthfully: "I don't know."

\----------------------------------------------------

Greg Lestrade was walking down the street, back to his car, tired from today's work. He had gone back to work after a few months of basically just staying at home. Work was a surprisingly good distraction from his thoughts and whenever he caught a criminal, he felt like he was somehow proving himself to Sherlock. That he was a good person. Though, just a few months ago he'd been close to a panic attack when a patrol had been sent out to stop a teenage girl from jumping off a bridge. He had been shaking and terrified for her and when he got word that they had got her down safely and she was alright, though shaken up, he had nearly fainted from relief. But he coped and that was enough. 

He heard a crack behind him, in the seemingly empty parking hall and turned around. He saw nobody. He was just being paranoid. He scoffed at himself and took a cigarette and a lighter out of his pocket, placing the cigarette in his mouth. A bad habit he hadn't been able to get rid of just yet. He lit the lighter and brought it up to the end of the cigarette, when an all too familiar voice said: "Those things will kill you."

Lestrade's lighter fell from his hand and the cigarette fell to the ground as well, when he turned to face the person who had just spoken. And it was Sherlock. Lestrade wasn't sure if he was dreaming. His breath hitched and he nearly jumped to hug Sherlock and he didn't disappear. He was really alive and here. Lestrade squeezed him tightly and he wasn't sure if Sherlock could breathe. After a moment, he pulled away and looked at Sherlock. He looked just like Lestrade remembered him, perhaps a bit thinner, but it was still unmistakably him. 

"You have so much to explain," He said, laughing and wiping tears from his eyes. Sherlock smiled slightly, one of his rare real smiles and promised that he would explain everything in detail right now if Lestrade wanted. And of course he did. Every small bit of tiredness he had felt was completely gone. He and Sherlock started walking towards the car together and when they got to it, Lestrade opened the door. Sherlock did the same, but instead of getting in immediately, he said: "Oh, I nearly forgot. Lestrade?" 

"Yes?" Lestrade asked him, confused. Sherlock flashed him a bright grin, one Lestrade had never seen as it was not sarcastic or mean at all and said: "I promise." 

Then he got in the car. Lestrade took a moment to think what Sherlock had just said and then he realized. Finally after all of these years Sherlock had made him a promise to never do that again. The waiting had been so, so worth it. He snapped out of his thoughts when Sherlock spoke again: "Well? What the hell is taking so long?" 

Yeah. It was good to have his friend back.


	7. The Empty Hearse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John goes back to Baker Street. What could go wrong, right?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for taking so long to update this, but in my defence this is a really long chapter. Like the name says, it revolves around the first episode of season 3. It deals a lot with John's feelings towards Sherlock now that he's back.
> 
> [I want to thank @arianedevere on LiveJournal for writing the entire script of the Empty Hearse and the other episodes of Sherlock as well. It helped me so much with writing this chapter, because I needed their actual commentary from the episode and it would've been hell to try to watch the episode and get their lines right. So it was huge help and everyone should definitely check her work out. She writes the details and everything so well. You can find the Empty Hearse script here: http://arianedevere.livejournal.com/64080.html So, all the credit for the correct lines goes to her :'D]

John did go back to Baker Street, the next day, in fact. He’d got off the hospital the same night, but he had thought that he should sleep and think if he was really ready to face Sherlock so soon after everything that had happened. Well, after staying up until five in the morning, thinking about him, John had his answer. He’d left Mary to sleep and went to a coffee shop, trying to wait until the clock was at least 12 PM, if not more. He didn’t want to seem too excited to meet Sherlock and honestly, he thought that Sherlock needed sleep. He had slept for an hour, maybe less, in the uncomfortable hospital chair by John’s bed, so John thought he deserved his sleep. And yes, he felt sorry for beating Sherlock up like that, of course he did. Sherlock was his best friend after all and he shouldn’t have done what he had. He wished he would’ve just hugged Sherlock for a long, long time, let him hold him tightly and just be glad that he was back, but he hadn’t and he couldn’t change that now. There were many things he couldn’t change, but in a way he just felt extremely glad that Sherlock’s suicide wasn’t one of those things anymore. Because there had been no suicide and of course, John was so very glad about that. He felt alive for the first time in two years, though he was tired and conflicted, he felt like he was living again, now that Sherlock was too.

John spent two hours in the small, sweet coffee shop and then just walked around town. More than once he found himself checking behind himself for suspicious looking people. He didn’t fancy being thrown into another bonfire or worse. He was relieved when the streets started filling up with people. He felt safer in the crowd. At 10 AM, he ended up in another coffee shop and that is where he met Greg Lestrade. The inspector looked great, a lot healthier and happier than he had looked the last time John had seen him briefly, a few months ago. Lestrade spotted him too and sat down at the table with him, smiling brightly as he said: “So, he really is back, huh? It’s so hard to believe.”

“Yeah. I thought I was dreaming too, but I guess I have to believe it, now that it’s all over the internet,” John replied, smiling slightly as well, over his cup of coffee. Lestrade laughed softly and took a sip of his own coffee, yawning as he put the cup down. His expression turned more serious when he looked at John again and his tone was beyond apologetic when he spoke: "Listen, I'm sorry for not contacting you these past two years. Sherlock's supposed death was, uh, really hard for me and I know that's not an excuse to leave you alone with all of that, especially since you were his best friend, but I--I blamed myself so much and I couldn't bear to be around you when I felt like I caused your best friend to jump off a roof. I-I've, umh, lost my best friend before, I was nineteen, so I know what that's like... And I know how you end up hating yourself and everyone and, yeah, blaming them," Lestrade sighed shakily and looked away: "It was... Not fair for me to not contact you at all and I was a coward for being afraid you'd blame me. I'm sorry, John."

"E-eh, it's alright, Greg, I understand. It was probably for the best for you to stay away, really. I was blaming the whole world and... I would've said and done things I didn't mean, so... It's alright, really, it is. There is no reason for me to blame you or anyone for this anymore, " John replied, choosing his words carefully. It was true that he had blamed Greg, a lot, in fact for not believing in Sherlock. But now, he had no reason for that anymore and just wanted to keep his friends close, so he added:" You're a good man, Greg. A good man who made a mistake. That happens and I forgive you. We can all just turn a new page and leave this behind, yeah?"

"Yeah," Greg grinned widely, looking relieved and lifted his coffee cup into the air, like he was making a toast and said: "To Sherlock being back, ready to screw up our lives again." John laughed and for the first time in a very long time, it was a genuine laugh. He clicked his cup against Greg's and smiled. This was a good way to start a day. Friends were always a good thing to have. 

Greg and John spoke for about an hour until the inspector had to return to his work. They promised to stay in contact and said their goodbyes. At 12.07 PM, John was at Baker Street, after walking through some shops to pass his time a little more. Mrs Hudson let him in, smiling very brightly, winking at him and telling him not to make too much noise when he started heading upstairs. John rolled his eyes. She never learned, did she? He briefly wondered if she had heard them that one drunk night, but pushed that thought away. It wouldn't happen again anyway, so there was no use thinking about it, especially since it had been years ago and John was practically a married man now. 

He went upstairs and stopped at the door, when he heard voices on the other side. Probably clients. He opened the door and stepped inside. Sherlock immediately looked towards him, then at the elderly couple, sitting on the couch. John said that he could wait if Sherlock had clients, but he insisted that they'd just been about to leave and quite rudely lead them out of the door. John asked if they were clients and that's when he found out that he had just met Sherlock's parents. Two of the most ordinary looking people on Earth and they were the parents of Sherlock and Mycroft Holmes. John was very surprised. He had wondered, many times what kind of people Sherlock's parents were, especially after they hadn't been at his funeral. John asked Sherlock if they had known and Sherlock replied 'maybe', looking ashamed of himself. John tried not to get angry again, even as he felt like everyone else had known, except him. Sherlock apologized again and it was so sincere that it made John feel a little bit better.   
Speaking with Sherlock felt strange. All of the words that came out of John's mouth felt sticky and forced somehow. Of course, John knew why that was, but he preferred not to think about it. About what had happened at the hospital. About how much he wanted to do so much more than hike Sherlock's hand and here they were, talking like they barely knew each other. It was sad. John wished he could just put his anger aside and hug Sherlock. 

Then Sherlock started talking about the case he was on at the moment, a planned terrorist attack on London, and the talking got a bit easier for both of them as it was about work. Sherlock explained everything in detail and both of them thought about it for a long while, looking through countless pictures and such. Still, neither of them could quite figure out where the hell Lord Moran could've got off the train. There was no way it had made any extra stops and he couldn't have jumped off, not because of the doors, or much less the speed. John couldn't understand at all and it was in a way, calming that Sherlock didn't seem to either. At least not until he seemed to get it all at once. Suddenly, he started pacing around the room, first calling himself a blind idiot, then starting to babble on and on about how brilliant the plan was. John asked him what he was on about, still confused. 

"Not an underground network, John. It's an Underground network!" He said, like it explained everything. John raised an eyebrow at him, still not getting it. Sherlock grinned widely and and leaned over John's shoulder to replay the clip of Lord Moran getting into the tube. 

"Look," he said, pointing at the screen and John tried to stay focused even with Sherlock so close to him: "Seven carriages leave Westminster... But, only six carriages arrive at St James' Park." John's eyes widened. Sherlock was right, he could see it with his own eyes, but it couldn't be possible. Sherlock said that the driver must've detached the carriage somewhere, but John protested: "Detached it where? You said there was nothing between those stations."

Sherlock scoffed and explained quickly, that perhaps there was nothing in between the stations on the maps, but there just had to be something, because there was no other possible option. John gave up trying to protest and just asked why they would do that in the first place. 

"It vanishes between St James’s Park and Westminster. Lord Moran vanishes. You’re kidnapped and nearly burned to death at a fireworks par--" Sherlock froze and stopped talking. He turned to John and asked for today's date. John started: "November the--" but couldn't even get to the end until he was stopped by his own realization. Sherlock spoke quickly, saying that there was an all-night sitting to vote on the new anti-terrorism bill and that Lord Moran would not be there today. Not, because it was the fifth of November. 

"Remember, remember," John started, reciting the old rhyme about Guy Fawkes, a terrorist who had attempted to assassinate King James I of England and the entire English Parliament with a plan named the Gunpowder Plot in 1605. Fifth of November. Sherlock looked up and finished for him: "Gunpowder Treason and plot."

\---Remember, remember,  
The 5th of November   
The Gunpowder Treason and plot;  
I know of no reason why Gunpowder Treason  
Should ever be forgot---

Later the same day John and Sherlock were frantically searching through several maps, old and new, trying to find something, anything that could be between the Westminster and the St James' Park Stations. They were skyping a man Sherlock had said he knew and he was helping them from the other side of the screen. He said that there was nothing and Sherlock told him to check again. John went through some old stations' names, but Sherlock said that they had already gone through all of those. Sherlock looked at another map and spoke: "St Margaret’s Street, Bridge Street, Sumatra Road, Parliament Street..." 

The man on the Skype call- Howard- straightened up on his chair and took out the piece of candy he'd been chewing, from his mouth. He said that Sumatra Road rang a bell and started going through some maps at his own end before pulling one up and explaining that there was a station in between Westminster and St James' Park, it had just never been opened. 

"It’s right underneath the Palace of Westminster," Sherlock said quietly and stood. John looked up at him and jokingly asked: "And so, what's down there? A bomb?" Sherlock said nothing and walked away. John followed him quickly, grabbing his coat. 

"Oh."  
\-----------------------------------------------------

They probably made it to the Westminster Station in record time, Sherlock leading the way, walking so quickly John nearly had to run to keep up. Damn him and his long legs. When they got in the Station, John finally asked: "So it's a bomb, then? A Tube carriage is carrying a bomb?" 

"Must be," Sherlock replied shortly, seeming focused on something else entirely. John sighed and dug his phone out of his pocket, telling Sherlock that he was calling the police. Sherlock told him not to and for some reason he only protested once before obeying and putting his phone away. 

After a small while of walking, they came to a maintenance entrance and Sherlock began unscrewing the bolts. John hissed that this was illegal and he could've sworn that he saw Sherlock smirk when he replied: "A bit." Damn masochist really got off on these things, didn't he? But even as John thought that, he felt a familiar thrilling chill go down his back as they stepped inside the maintenance tunnel. Maybe they both just were suckers for danger. 

John walked a few steps after Sherlock, through the tunnel and dug out his phone again. Sherlock asked what he was doing, just as a 'No service' sign popped up on his screen. John sighed and said: "Coming." As he put his phone away. No police then. Great. 

The two men walked in silence for what seemed like forever. Endless narrow hallways, turns, stairs. John was sure that they were lost for good and Sherlock was just too embarrassed to admit that he didn’t know where to go. John was just about to tell him to admit that they were lost, when the hallway turned wider and soon they were standing at a station platform. Sherlock shone the flashlight towards the tracks but there was nothing there, No train, not even a trace of it. John fought the urge to bang his head against a wall.

“I don’t understand,” Sherlock said, sounding almost panicked, flashing the light around. John grit his teeth and his tone was dripping with cynicism when he replied: “Well, that’s a first!”

“There’s nowhere else it could be,” Sherlock said stubbornly, looking at the tracks intently, then closing his eyes. John knew better than to say anything more when Sherlock was thinking. He was ready to turn back and leave, even if he had to walk back on his own. Then suddenly Sherlock let out a loud ‘Oh!’ and ran to the end of the platform. John ran after him. Sherlock didn’t answer when John asked what he had figured out. Instead he jumped down onto the tracks. John’s eyes widened: “Hang on. Sherlock?”  
“What?” Sherlock snapped, turning back towards him with an impatient expression on his face. John swallowed thickly and questioned: “That’s--Isn’t it live?” Sherlock scoffed and turned back towards the tunnel, walking off as he replied, his tone uncaring: “Perfectly safe as long as we avoid touching the rails.”

“‘Course, yeah! Avoid the rails. Great,” John groaned sarcastically as he jumped down onto the tracks. Sherlock led the way again and John followed hesitantly. They didn’t have to walk long until they saw the missing carriage around a corner. Sherlock sounded more than smug when he said: “Ah. Look at that.” John was about to say something incredibly sarcastic when Sherlock stopped suddenly and shone the light upwards.

“John?” He said silently, it was barely a gasp. John hummed in reply and looked up as well. The vent was filled with small explosives that had little lights on them. John gasped out: “Demolition charges.” They continued walking until they got up to the carriage and Sherlock opened the door. They stepped inside and John looked around. He had been expecting a bomb or anything that would sign there was one in there, but he saw nothing. Sherlock looked at the seats, seeming interested in something, while John walked to the end of the compartment. Nothing there either. He turned back towards Sherlock who was still examining the seats and said: “It’s empty. There’s nothing.”

“Isn’t there?” Sherlock replied. John turned his flashlight towards Sherlock, just as he lifted a cushion off the seat, bending down to look underneath it. He stood back up and looked at John, saying: “This is the bomb.”

John asked him what he was talking about and Sherlock took the cushion off the seat completely, revealing a cavity full of explosives: “It’s not carrying a bomb. The whole compartment is the bomb.” John took in a sharp breath and started taking off cushions as well and they both went through the carriage, finding that there were explosives underneath each seat. John was already panicking and when Sherlock pulled off a loose floorboard, revealing a huge bomb in the floor, he didn’t feel any better. He looked at Sherlock and said that they needed bomb disposal now. Sherlock said that there was no time for that. John told him to do something about it himself and froze when Sherlock said he didn’t know how. 

“You’re Sherlock Holmes. You’re as clever as it gets!” 

"Doesn't mean I know how to defuse a giant bomb! What about you?" 

"I wasn't in bomb disposal. I'm a bloody doctor!" John snapped at him. Sherlock looked up at him and made a face, before snapping back at him: "And a soldier, as you keep reminding us all!" John went quiet and looked at the bomb for a moment before quietly asking if they could just rip the timer off or something along those lines.   
Sherlock sighed: "That would set it off." 

"See? You know things! "

They stared each other down, fighting without words, until suddenly the Tube compartment lit up and there was a beeping sound. They both turned to look at the bomb, which timer was now counting down from 2:30. Sherlock gasped and John's breath hitched. 

"Oh my God!" John groaned, his hands starting to shake. He grit his teeth and yelled: "Why didn't you call the police?!" Sherlock tried to say something silently, but John paid him no attention and yelled even louder: "Why do you never call the police?!" 

Sherlock said that this was no use now and turned back to the bomb. John kept talking, his voice trembling, causing Sherlock to look at him. Their eyes locked for a moment and Sherlock spoke, pointing at the door: "Go John. Go now."

John was frozen for a moment. Sherlock was telling him to go. Meaning that he would stay here alone and die for real. There was a small chance that John could make it if he ran for his life right now, but then Sherlock would die and other people too. And John would not let that happen. He couldn't lose Sherlock again and he could die for that decision. He could die because he loved this emotionally idiotic detective in an oversized coat, but he would not leave Sherlock alone. Of course he didn't say this. Instead he said that there was no point because he wouldn't make it anymore and if they didn't do this, other people would die. 

They were silent for a moment, looking at their precious time ticking away, until John remembered Sherlock's Mind Palace. That could help. It had to help. But Sherlock said that the had nothing. Still he tried to think, think, think and John prayed he would find something, anything. Then Sherlock dropped his hands and looked at John and John knew that look. He had seen it so many times through the mirror while looking at himself. The look of despair, apologetic sadness. John couldn't look at him anymore and walked away, just a few steps. Sherlock bent over the bomb, muttering to himself and flailing his hands in a panicked manner. This was it. John would die in here with Sherlock Holmes after he had just got him back. It wasn't fair. It was so damn unfair. He briefly thought about Mary. She would cope, he supposed. He'd just wished he could've had a life, a good one with Mary, even a great one with Sherlock and now it was all being taken away from him. He should've called Harry and told her he loved her. He should've--His thinking was stopped by Sherlock apologizing silently.

John had to close his eyes for a moment before looking at him again and asking what he was saying. Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he stuttered when he spoke: "I can't--I can't do it, John. I don't know how...Forgive me?" 

"What?" John questioned, his voice sounding more like a terrified gasp. Sherlock clasped his fingers together, like he was praying and continued: "Please, John, forgive me...For all the hurt that I caused you." John couldn't believe his ears. It had to be a trick. It just had to be one of Sherlock's stupid tricks again. He said that to Sherlock and the man chuckled humourlessly, saying that it wasn't, not this time. John couldn't bear to look at Sherlock in this state anymore and turned away, quietly admitting that he had wanted Sherlock not to be dead. Sherlock told him to be careful what he wished for and it hurt, oh hell it hurt when he said that. He kept going, saying that John would've had a future with Mary if he had just never come back and John felt like his heart was splitting in two at those words. He barely registered what he was replying to Sherlock's words. 

"Look, I find it difficult," He said after a moment, taking in a sharp breath: I find it difficult, this sort of stuff."

"I know," Sherlock breathed out. John's bottom lip trembled when he spoke again: "You were the best and the wisest man... That I have ever known....Yes, of course I forgive you." 

I love you. I love you. I love you. John's mind screamed but he didn't say it out loud. He looked at Sherlock, who looked so thankful and loved that man so much his heart hurt. Still, even at a moment like this, where they only had seconds to live, he couldn't say it out loud. He wished he hadn't been afraid to love Sherlock. He wished he wasn't afraid know. John took a deep breath through his nose, clenched his fists and screwed his eyes shut. He couldn't say it. This just had to be enough. He hoped that Sherlock knew. He hoped so much that somehow Sherlock knew. He was ready to go now. He just hoped that Sherlock knew.

John waited. And waited. There was no loud bang or pain. Just silence. Well, just silence and Sherlock’s weeping. Except it wasn’t weeping. Sherlock was laughing. John opened his eyes to look at him. He wasn’t mistaken. Sherlock was actually laughing his ass off. John took a step towards him and leaned down to look at the bomb. The counter was flickering between 1:28 and 1:29, but it was most definitely stopped. John turned his head away and took a deep breath, trying to form words as he turned back towards his companion who was still laughing.

“You--” John managed to get out. And that was all he could say. He was so angry, relieved and confused at the same time. Sherlock continued to laugh hysterically, pointing at him: “Oh, your face!” John was saying something, but he didn’t even know what, his mind was so fuzzy. Sherlock grinned at him at wiped tears from his eyes.

“You cock! I knew it! I knew it! You f--” John screamed, finally vocalising his thoughts. He couldn’t finish the extremely rude thing he had been about to say, because Sherlock spoke over him: “Oh, those things you said-- Such sweet things. I never knew you cared.”

“I will kill you if you ever breathe a word of this--”

“Scout’s honor,” Sherlock smirked, lifting two fingers up in a salute. John was still furious and continued yelling: “--to anyone! You knew! You knew how to turn it off!” Sherlock just grinned wider, squatting down next to the bomb and calmly explaining that there was an ‘Off’ switch on it, that there was always an off switch because terrorists could get into all sorts of trouble without it. John shook his head and asked how Sherlock could’ve let him go through all of that.

“I didn’t lie altogether. I have absolutely no idea how to turn any of these silly little lights off,” Sherlock chuckled, smiling up at him. John wondered if he should laugh or choke Sherlock to death. HIs thought process was stopped by a voice and several lights coming from the tunnel. John groaned: “And you did call the police!”  
“Of course, I called the police,” Sherlock replied. John let out a disbelieved sigh and said: “I’m definitely going to kill you.”

“Oh please! Killing me-- That’s so two years ago,” Sherlock smiled widely and headed towards the driver’s cab. John couldn’t help but let out a small laugh. He knew that Sherlock had heard him when the detective laughed softly and oh God, John had missed that laugh. He sighed and smiled to himself. This was his life now. Again. And that was so much more than okay.  
\-------------------------------------------------------------------------  
A few days after, everyone was gathered at 221b. John and Sherlock were supposed to go downstairs to see the press, but Sherlock insisted on waiting a moment. They went into the living room where Mary and Mrs Hudson were sitting on the couch and speaking. John was glad to see that they got along well, though he felt slightly anxious when the topic of his and Mary’s wedding came up. He couldn’t help but notice though, that Sherlock seemed even more bothered by the topic. Still, somehow he managed to smile at Mary when he said that weddings weren’t his thing. John wondered if Sherlock still felt something for him, but decided to drop it. No use thinking about that. They could never have each other like that. John was comfortable with Mary, he was happy even and he couldn’t risk something like that just because Sherlock might feel something for him or because he felt something for Sherlock. It would be too difficult. It could never work with John being so afraid of his own feelings and Sherlock being...well, Sherlock. John mentally slapped himself when he realized that he was still thinking about it. 

The door opened and John focused his attention on the visitor instead. Molly Hooper. She looked very pretty, if not a bit boring in John’s opinion. He wondered if Sherlock thought that she was pretty and hated himself for it. He shouldn’t think about these things. He shouldn’t be mean to Molly. She had never done anything wrong. John glanced at Sherlock, who didn’t even turn when Molly said hey to everyone. John knew he shouldn’t feel relieved, but he did anyway. Then he noticed the man that was currently holding Molly’s hand and he could think was; Wow. Wow, as in, sure the man was attractive, but he also looked like a cheap copy of Sherlock. Molly introduced him as Tom and he greeted everyone. Lestrade said hi to him, slightly awkwardly and then Tom looked at John and greeted him as well. John eyed him for a moment, trying to collect himself so that he wouldn’t either laugh or say anything stupid and then grinned and replied: “Wow. Yeah, hi, I’m John. Good to meet you.”

He glanced at Sherlock again and the detective was now facing him and asked if he was ready. John nodded. Sherlock started heading for the stairs, until he stopped dead on his tracks, upon seeing Tom for the first time. He seemed to have noticed the resemblance as well. Tom looked a bit shocked as well, as Sherlock scanned him from head to toe. Lestrade was kind enough to break the extremely awkward staring contest by asking if Molly and Tom wanted champagne. Sherlock turned to look at John, as if he was asking for advice and John snorted at his shocked expression, before grinning and raising his eyebrows. Sherlock managed to smile quite convincingly when he shook Tom’s hand. He gave John a look that said: “Let’s go before I say something that will upset Molly.”

Thankfully, Mrs Hudson and Mary started talking to Tom and Greg asked Molly if she was serious with Tom. She replied that she really had moved on. John nearly started laughing at Greg’s doubtful expression and quickly walked after Sherlock who had already left the room.

“Did you, er--?” John asked awkwardly, pointing back towards the door. Sherlock looked like he was holding back laughter when he whispered: “I’m not saying a word.”  
“No, best not,” John agreed. They both stood in silence for a moment, before John cleared his throat and said: “I’m still waiting,” Sherlock hummed in response, raising an eyebrow at him. John asked if he knew why he had been attacked and put in the bonfire yet. Sherlock averted his eyes and replied: “I don’t know. I don’t like not knowing. Unlike the nicely embellished fictions on your blog, John, real life is rarely so neat.”

They walked down the stairs and Sherlock threw on his coat. John stopped on the bottom steps and listened when Sherlock promised that he would figure it out. John scoffed: “Don’t pretend you’re not enjoying this.” Sherlock didn’t look at him, just hummed again. John chuckled and said that only an idiot wouldn’t notice how much Sherlock this. Sherlock asked him what he meant and John smiled slightly: “Being Sherlock Holmes.”

“I don’t even know what that’s supposed to mean,” Sherlock said, but John could hear the small smirk in his voice. He walked down the hall, putting on his gloves and John followed him, asking if Sherlock would ever tell him how he faked the Fall. Sherlock only replied that he was known to be indestructible. John sighed and said that after Sherlock’s supposed death, he had gone to his grave.

“I should hope so,” Sherlock replied. John took a deep breath and continued: “I made a little speech. I actually spoke to you.”  
“I know. I was there,” Sherlock answered and finally turned to look at John. The shorter man took in a sharp breath, feeling his heart speeding up. He had been guessing that, but still it was hard to believe that Sherlock had really been there that day. John swallowed thickly and added: “I asked you for one more miracle. I asked you to stop being dead.”

“I heard you,” Sherlock said softly, staring down at John. John stared right back at him, his heart still racing. He almost felt like Sherlock could hear it. He felt his hand starting to shake and it felt difficult to breath. All of this, just from looking into Sherlock’s eyes. It would be so easy to break the distance between them and kiss Sherlock. He wanted to, God he wanted to. He wanted to just stop caring and love Sherlock. He wanted to let himself love Sherlock, because he knew that Mary could never make him feel like this. But he couldn’t. He wouldn’t. He knew that he couldn’t and it was all his own fault. Still, when Sherlock broke their eye contact and drew in a sharp breath, he felt like he had made a huge mistake. His heart ached when Sherlock turned away from him. Still, he forced himself to smile when Sherlock put the deerstalker onto his head and said: “Anyway, time to go and be Sherlock Holmes.”

John sighed deeply and stepped outside with Sherlock. This needed to end. He needed to just be Sherlock’s friend and stop with these thoughts. Still, when he closed the door and was met with the flashing lights from various cameras, he thought that it was so easy to be with Sherlock. That maybe if they gave it a shot, it would work. He knew they wouldn’t. They couldn’t. He shook his head and tried to smile at the cameras. It was him and Sherlock against the World again. Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, best friends that solved crimes together. The dynamic duo. That’s what the papers would write and that’s what they had to be.  
Sherlock Holmes and John Watson. Friends.


	8. The sign of three

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John is getting married and Sherlock's heart hurts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yo, yo, my guys, gals and non-binary pals. This is another long chapter, though maybe not as well detailed as the last one. Regardless, I worked hard on it and as always, i hope you enjoy.
> 
> I'm literally posting this from my bed.  
> I'm supposed to be sleeping.  
> I need to get up at 6.45.  
> Shhhh.
> 
> Ps. This chapter isn't from Jonn's POV like the others because I wanted to make this extra feelsy and write about how Sherlock felt during the episode  
> Pps. Another thank you to @arianedevere on LV for writing out the script, couldn't have written this without it

John Watson was going to get married. The man who taught Sherlock Holmes how to feel, how to love, was getting married. He was getting married to a beautiful, kind woman, Mary Morstan, who would soon become Mary Watson. Mary Watson. That sounded good. Sherlock had to admit that Mary Watson sounded really nice. Meant to be, like some romantics would say. And even Sherlock had to admit that they seemed to be a match made in Heaven. John who was loyal, caring, funny and so very loving and Mary who was kind, sweet, beautiful and absolutely lovely. Sherlock didn’t understand how he could’ve ever thought that he, who was awkward, emotionally blind and not to mention stupidly depressed, could’ve ever been something with John Watson. John was a good man and Sherlock was...He was just Sherlock. He was smart and that was it. His wit was really all he had to him and apparently, even that had betrayed him as he had thought that now that he was back, he could be something more with John.   
He sighed shakily. He remembered how John had always called him brilliant and amazing and of course, he still did whenever they spent some time together, but it just felt somehow forced these days; like it was just something John had grown accustomed to, like it was something he felt like he had to do. Brush your teeth, check. Get dressed, check. Call Sherlock brilliant, check. Like that. And really, it didn’t make Sherlock feel better at all anymore. Because John called Mary beautiful, lovely, gorgeous. Because John told Mary he loved her. Because John and Mary wore matching rings and because John and Mary were going to get married in a few days. And Sherlock was going to be John’s best man. His best friend. His friend. And Mary Morstan was going to be his wife.

Sherlock had tried so hard to hate Mary, but how on Earth could he have done that after Mary had been nothing but kind to him and probably the only reason he was even in contact with John now? So, yes, hating Mary didn’t work. Neither did hating John. After Sherlock had realized that, he had tried to figure out an excuse to skip the wedding. Then he had given up. He couldn’t do that John. Because John was happy now and Sherlock had to be there on his big day, because he was John’s best friend. Even if it made him want to kill himself, he had to be there. He had to.

So, he had prepared his speech, practiced it, even when his voice had trembled. Even when he had cried himself to sleep after, he had practiced his speech. And now it was a routine. He could read his speech and not cry. And he would just have to get over his anxiety somehow. For John, he reminded himself. He had to do this for John.   
He had written a waltz for Mary and John. He had taught John how to dance. He had not kissed John during those lessons, even when he had wanted to. He hadn’t touched John more than was necessary. He hadn’t said anything about his feelings, though his heart ached from the words that were threatening to spill out. Because he was doing this all for John’s happiness. He had promised himself that he would never make John sad again.

Truly, when he thought about his speech, it might’ve been better for him to skip the wedding. He’d written his speech so that he was saying I love you with every word, without actually saying it and if someone caught on...Except they wouldn’t, Sherlock had made sure to choose his words carefully. Only John would understand, if he chose to. Of course, he wouldn’t. But that was okay.

Except that it wasn’t. It wasn’t okay at all. Sherlock laid down on his bed. It wasn’t okay at all that John was marrying Mary. It wasn’t okay that he would never hear John tell him that he loved him. It wasn’t okay that John loved someone else. It wasn’t okay. It wasn’t okay at all and it wasn’t fair. Sherlock rolled onto his stomach, buried his head in the pillows and screamed. He screamed and screamed and screamed, until he broke down into a helpless sobbing fit. He felt like he had been stabbed repeatedly in the chest. It hurt. His heart hurt. It felt like it was going to burst into tiny pieces. Sherlock curled into himself and clasped at his chest. He was trembling from head to toe and the tears just kept coming. He just prayed that John or Mrs Hudson wouldn’t hear him. But of course, because God either didn’t exist or give a shit, there was a faint knock on his door.

“I’m okay!” He choked out and didn’t sound okay at all. The door opened and his landlady stepped inside, a worried expression on her face. When she saw Sherlock there, curled into a small shaking ball, she didn’t even have to ask what was wrong. Mrs Hudson had always just known. Nobody else could quite read Sherlock like she could and years ago, before the fall, she had sat Sherlock down and asked about his feelings for John. And Sherlock had told her. Let everything spill and she had listened. She had encouraged him and said that John would come around. That John looked at him so lovingly. And that hadn’t happened. Because now John had someone else to look at, someone who was far more whole and good than Sherlock. Mary wasn’t broken, a drug addict or sad like Sherlock was. And John deserved her. But it still hurt so much that Sherlock felt like he was going to die from the pain.

Mrs Hudson walked over to the bed and sat down beside him, gently placing a hand on his arm and stroked it reassuringly. Sherlock let out a helpless sob and she sighed softly. Not in a tired or a disapproving way. It was an understanding sigh. Then she spoke, in a soft, motherly tone: “It’s going to be alright, Sherlock.”

“No, it’s not!” Sherlock wailed, looking up at her, tears still streaming down his face. Mrs Hudson was the only person he would let see him like this. His bottom lip trembled when he spoke again, voice barely above a whisper: “It’s not going to be okay. B-Because John is going to get m-married and he’s going to forget about m-me.”

Lonely. Sherlock realized that he was afraid to be lonely. Lonely again, in a world where John didn’t care about him anymore. Lonely, because he could no longer calm himself down with the thought of John loving him. Because John didn’t love him. He possibly never had. No, not possibly. He never had. Those “I love you’s” that had slipped out of John’s mouth that one drunk night had meant nothing. They had meant nothing, because Sherlock could’ve been anyone.

“He’s never going to love me, Mrs Hudson,” Sherlock choked out. Mrs Hudson shook her head and gently pulled Sherlock up into a sitting position. She placed her hands on his cheeks and turned his head upwards, so that he was looking into her eyes and she said: “Then he’s not very smart. It doesn’t help now, but you will find someone who will wait for you and love you for your flaws. It’s difficult when someone moves on without you, I know, but it happens.”

“No, you don’t understand,” Sherlock sniffled, staring into her eyes, begging her to understand: “I only want him.”

Mrs Hudson looked so understanding it was painful. She whispered that she knew and wrapped her arms around Sherlock, who let her and sobbed into her shoulder. She rubbed his back and held him in silence. Sherlock hiccuped and whimpered: “I only love him. I’ve only ever loved him.”

“I know, Sherlock, I know,” Mrs Hudson replied quietly. She knew that this was a lost cause. He had never seen Sherlock like this around anyone else than John and she knew that he truly loved John. She could see how much Sherlock had changed after John had become a part of his life. She was afraid that Sherlock really would not be able to love anyone else than John. For a moment, she considered telling John, but Sherlock would hate her for it and it could completely ruin everything. So she just held Sherlock and let him cry.

“It will be alright. You can get through this.” She repeated. Sherlock’s breath hitched and he wailed loudly, clinging onto Mrs Hudson like he was drowning. Mrs Hudson had been here before, during Sherlock’s anxiety attacks, but he had never been like this, never this bad and it worried her. She wondered if Sherlock would be able to get up on his feet after this, without John. Her thinking was stopped when she heard steps nearing and before she could call out and tell John that everything was fine, he was standing in the doorway.

“What is...Mrs Hudson, what’s going on?” He asked, his gaze falling on Sherlock: “What’s wrong with Sherlock?” Mrs Hudson took in a sharp breath, not knowing what to say. Turns out, she didn’t need to, because Sherlock pushed her away and wiped his eyes, looking up at John.

“It’s nothing,” He said quickly, determined to look normal. John wasn’t having any of it though and walked into the room, asking him to tell the truth: “You were crying, Sherlock. It’s not nothing.” Sherlock didn’t know what to reply to that. He couldn’t look at John in the eyes and just stared at the floor. Mrs Hudson decided to speak up, because she knew that it was extremely humiliating for Sherlock to break down in front of anyone, especially John of all people.

“Anxiety attack. It happens sometimes,” She said and Sherlock glared at her, saying: “It wasn’t an anxiety attack. I don’t have anxiety.” He drew in a shuddering breath, stood and walked past John, heading for the stairs. He needed to get out, somewhere out of sight. John didn’t need to know about his anxiety or what had triggered it. John couldn’t know. Because then he would stress about it and his wedding could be ruined. Sherlock told himself that he didn’t want that. He wanted John’s wedding to be perfect. It needed to be perfect. No matter how much Sherlock wanted it to be ruined, he had to make it perfect for John. After the wedding he could let himself go and cry as much as he wanted, but now he had to put on a happy face for John. It was all for John and that thought kept Sherlock going. 

He was just about to hurry down the stairs when someone grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, turning him around. John. Sherlock gasped quietly at the tight hold on his arm. John was staring into his eyes intently and his tone was almost desperate when he asked: “Really, Sherlock, what’s wrong? You know that I’ll listen. And don’t say that you’re okay, not when I just found you sobbing into Mrs Hudson’s shoulder.”

“John---” Sherlock whispered, trying to form more words, but it was difficult when his throat felt tight and tears were treathening to spill. I love you. I love you. What if he would just say it? I love you, John? How would John react? He would be disgusted, no doubt. He didn’t love Sherlock, he couldn’t. So instead of telling the truth, Sherlock forced out quite a convincing chuckle and said: “I’m stressed. I know it’s stupid, but it almost feels like I’m getting married myself. I haven’t had a proper case in weeks and I’m nervous about the wedding. I just want the day to be perfect for you...A-And Mary. You deserve it. You both do.”

“Sherlock…” John said quietly and let out a small laugh, placing his hands on Sherlock’s shoulder, breaking into a grin: “You have already helped so much. Mary and I could’ve never planned all of this without you. Not this well at least. You don’t need to stress over this, it’s not your responsibility. But since I know it’s useless to tell you that, I’ll just thank you.” And then he hugged Sherlock. It was wrong. John shouldn’t be hugging him. Still, Sherlock relaxed and hated himself for that. He wanted to wrap his arms around John and pull him closer. He didn’t though. That would’ve been inappropriate. At least he thought so, until John quietly spoke: “Would be nice to get a hug back. You’re not the only one who’s been stressed.” He chuckled softly and Sherlock almost automatically wrapped his arms around him. It was nowhere near enough, but Sherlock just had to act like it was. In reality it just broke his heart more, holding John like this, but if he could, for just a small moment, think that John was his and his only, heartbreak was so worth it. John was literally perfectly shorter than Sherlock. HIs face was pressed against Sherlock’s collar and Sherlock’s chin rested on the top of his head. They stood there for a long moment, neither of them wanting to let go. John tilted his head upwards slightly and his lips brushed against Sherlock’s neck. Sherlock gasped and froze for a second, before pulling away from the hug, wide eyed. John was staring up at him, eyes just as wide and his face reddened.

“U-um, I’m sorry, I wasn’t supposed to…” John whispered. Sherlock swallowed thickly, took a few deep breaths and turned around, starting to walk down the stairs. He didn’t look over his shoulder when he said, trying to keep his tone flat: “You spend too much time here, considering that you no longer live here.”

“Sherlock,” John called after him and Sherlock turned, looking up at him pleadingly. His eyes were betraying him, even when his tone remained quite emotionless. He looked like he was ready to cry, when he spoke: “I’m going for a walk. I need some time for myself. We all still have a lot of planning to do and your big day is coming up faster than you think. Go home to your wife, John.” And then he hurried out of the door, practically running down the street. Why had John acted like that? Could it be that John did in fact feel something for him? No, no, it must’ve just been that John had been freaked out by the inmate contact. Either way, Sherlock needed distance between them. Either way, he could never have John. He looked down when tears started falling from his eyes. He turned his coat collar up to shield his face and walked as quickly as he could. He needed to stop. This needed to end right now. He couldn’t have John and that was all his fault, so there was no use crying over it anymore. Still, even as he told himself that, his heart hurt like it was being torn apart.  
\----------------------------------------------------  
The following few days were Hell on Earth. The only times Sherlock could get anything done was when Mary and John visited. He barely managed to keep himself together when they did, but somehow he got through it. Whenever he was alone in the flat though, it was a completely different story. It took him hours to get out of bed and he didn’t even bother doing anything to make himself look decent. He mostly just walked about, tried to do something productive, but it just didn’t work. It didn’t work at all. Not when he broke down into tears when he dropped his pen or if he ripped the paper he’d been reading. It was like he was 19 and so very alone again. For the first time in his life, he wished that he could get his depression medication back. He would rather feel numb than like...this. Ever since he had been a kid, he’d heard people saying that love was a beautiful thing that made you stronger. Well, everyone except Mycroft. Mycroft had been right about love. It was a terrible disadvantage. There was nothing beautiful about this feeling that was tearing him apart bit by bit.

He remembered how his mother had always told him that one day he would fall in love and it would be the most amazing thing on Earth. Sherlock looked at himself in the mirror and scoffed. ‘Well, Mummy, I fell in love and look where that love has brought me. Amazing indeed,’ he thought to himself, bitterly.

Still after all of that crying and wanting to just curl up and die, on the day of the wedding, Sherlock was looking better than ever. He didn’t want to look like someone had pissed in his cereal that morning, so he forced himself to smile at guests and laugh at jokes. He met Janine, she was alright and quite funny actually. She at least momentarily distracted him from the terrible pain that was trying to tear him apart. He met James Sholto and was disgusted at himself for being jealous when John went to speak to him.

Then the moment he had dreaded was at hand. His speech. He stared at the hall full of guests and his brain felt empty. He stuttered and stumbled over his words and felt the terrible noose of anxiety tightening around his neck. He wanted to just run away. He glanced at John, who looked up at him and whispered: “Telegrams.”  
“Right! Um…” Sherlock squeaked. He started going through his pocket frantically until he realized that they were on the table in front of him. John cleared his throat and Sherlock took a deep breath, before picking up the cards: “First things first, telegrams.”

“Well, they’re not actually telegrams. We just call them telegrams. I don’t know why. Wedding tradition,” He lifted the first card and added sarcastically: “Because we don’t have enough of that apparently.” He glanced at John, who narrowed his eyes at him. Okay, no jokes then. He read the first card. It was from Mike Stamford, the man who had first introduced John and Sherlock to each other. Sherlock felt a stab of pain in his chest, but continued going through the cards, like nothing had happened. He didn’t read every card, just ended up saying the first word of each. Love. Love. Love. Stupid word. Sherlock placed the cards down and said: “Bit of a theme--You get the general gist. People are basically fond.” He felt relieved when some of the guests laughed. He would get through this.

“John Watson,” He said, looking around the room and gesturing at John, who smiled at him: “My friend, John Watson. John.” He mentally cursed himself for turning to look at John and saying his name so softly. He was supposed to be a friend.

“When John first broached the subject of being best man, I was confused,” Sherlock continued, starting to tell the story of when John had asked him to be his best man. He couldn’t help but smile fondly at the memory, though it hurt. It hurt him that John really asked him to be his best man, considering the history they had, but it had been nice to hear John say: “I want to be up there with the two people I love and care about the most in the World. Mary Morstan and you.” John had just told him he loved him, though he only meant it as a friend, but it had made Sherlock feel all bubbly and happy inside. Of course he didn’t say that to the guests. He just continued on talking about his confusion of the fact that John Watson saw him as his best friend. He finished the story and bit his lip as he went through his cue cards, trying to figure out what was next. This wasn’t going as smoothly as he had hoped it would.

“I am afraid, John, that I can’t congratulate you,” He said then and John swallowed thickly. Sherlock knew that he was fearing what Sherlock would say next. Perhaps John was guessing that Sherlock had feelings for him. Was he thinking that Sherlock would say them out loud right here? Sherlock blinked a few times, before turning back to the audience and starting to speak. He felt nauseous when he spoke, saying that he didn’t see weddings as something of importance. The guests were silent. Sherlock felt like he was going to faint.

“But anyway, uh, let’s talk about John,” He said quickly, his hands shaking slightly. He put his cards down so that nobody would see. He spoke and he forgot the speech he had written before. He was speaking straight from his heart, managing to crack a few jokes here and there. Then became the difficult part.

“John, I am a ridiculous man,” He started: “redeemed only by the warmth and constancy of your friendship. But, as I’m apparently your best friend, I cannot congratulate you on your choice of companion.” He felt sick again, but still, he forced a small smile as he added: “Actually, now I can.” He turned to Mary.

“Mary, when I say you deserve this man, it is the highest compliment of which I am capable. John, you have endured war, and injury, and tragic loss ,” He leaned closer to John for a moment: “...So sorry again about that last one. So know this: today you sit between the woman you have made your wife and the man you have saved – in short, the two people who love you most in all this world. And I know I speak for Mary as well when I say we will never let you down, and we have a lifetime ahead to prove that.” He said and meant every word. He had said it out loud. He had said that he loved John. John sniffled and wiped tears from his eyes. He had never thought that Sherlock could say something so beautiful about him, to him. He looked at Mary and felt terrible. He liked Mary and she was lovely. She deserved someone better. Someone who didn’t wonder if he should’ve married someone else. John didn’t want to think like that, but Sherlock’s words just made him want to call this whole thing off and choose him instead. Of course, he did nothing like that.

“Ah, yes. Now onto some funny stories about John,” Sherlock spoke again and looked up from his cards to see all of the guests wiping their eyes, some even sobbing. He panicked, wondering if he’d done something wrong and spoke quickly: “What’s wrong? What happened? Why are you all doing that? John?” He quieted down for a moment, before quietly asking: “Did I do it wrong?” He was terrified that he had screwed it all up, until John stood up.

“No, you didn’t. Come here,” John said and pulled him into a tight hug. Sherlock froze on the spot, nearly dropping his cards. The guests started applauding loudly. He felt like his legs were going to give out. He leaned into John’s touch, but didn’t hug him back and said: “I haven’t finished yet.”

“Yeah, I know. I know,” John replied, but didn’t let him go just yet. Sherlock wasn’t sure how much more of this he could take, with his heart nearly leaping out of his chest. Then John released him, his hand still resting on his back and Sherlock immediately pulled the cards out of his pocket again, to hide how flustered he was.

“So, onto some funny stories--” He started and shut up when John asked him to wait until he sat down. So Sherlock waited and when John was back on his seat, he started again: “So, onto some funny stories about John.” 

He told the guests to cheer up and everyone laughed. He felt slightly better when he started to talk about the cases he and John had solved together. He even chuckled a few times at the fond memories. He talked shortly about some of their cases, until he got to the one of The Bloody Guardsman. He spoke about that one with more detail, wanting to make his point clear. Some things of the case were difficult to think about, to remember, because he had been quite terrible, asked John too private things about James Sholto and left when John had talked about Mary, but he needed to use this case to make his point. He wanted everyone in this room to know how amazing John was. 

“There was one feature and only one feature of interest in the whole of this baffling case, and quite frankly it was the usual. John Watson--Who, while I was trying to solve the murder, instead saved a life,” He ended his speech after asking the guests how they thought the stabbing had been done. He looked at John and his voice was so fond and soft when he called John the bravest man he’d ever had the pleasure to know. John looked down, seemingly embarrassed. Sherlock was about to move on to the next story, when Lestrade stopped him to ask how the murder attempt had been done and Sherlock had to awkwardly explain that he’d never solved the case. He was still annoyed by that one.

After that, Sherlock told the story of John’s stag night and everyone seemed to be in a good mood after that. Then everything went to shit. Because talking about the old cases had woken up some memories. And Sherlock got it, all at once. How Tessa had told him to enjoy the wedding. She knew about the wedding, she knew John’s middle name, so she had seen the invite. The Mayfly Man, the cold blooded, yet extremely smart murder had seen five women. It couldn’t be a coincidence. No, the universe was rarely so lazy. Someone had needed to find out about the wedding, had to. Which could only mean that The Mayfly Man was…

“Here today,” Sherlock spoke out loud. His wine glass slipped and fell to the floor with a loud crash. Sherlock looked down at it for a moment, before apologizing. He was offered another glass and he accepted it, his mind buzzing. The Mayfly Man was here but who was he. Who could it be? He scanned the room, but nobody stood out to him. He needed to do this in a way that wouldn’t reveal to the murderer that he had it figured out. So, he went along with his speech, gracefully jumping over the table to walk among the guests. He babbled about something, he was sure didn’t even make sense. There were too many guests, he had absolutely no way of guessing who it was, but he couldn’t let the murderer run. He carefully took out his phone and texted Lestrade to lock the place down. Greg nodded at him and pretended to leave for the bathroom. John sounded tired when when he asked if Sherlock’s speech was ever going to end, because they had to cut the cake.

“Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when I finally get the chance to speak for once, Vatican Cameos,” Sherlock replied, targeting the last two words directly at John, whose eyes widened and he sat up straighter. Sherlock watched how he started explaining to Mary what it meant and scoffed. His ears were ringing. He couldn’t focus over the voice in his head telling him to “Narrow it down”. 

He looked around at the guests. Not him. Not him. Not him. He turned around on his heel, grinning and pointing at John. He needed to keep his cool. He couldn’t let the Mayfly Man catch on now. He started walking towards the table as he spoke: “It’s always you. John Watson, you keep me right.” He arrived at the table and John stared up at him asking what he wanted him to do. Sherlock’s tone was heated when he replied: “Well, you’ve already done it. Don’t solve the murder. Save the life.”  
Then he turned back to the guests, still smiling widely. For the first time in his life he was glad that people thought he was a freak, because that way his strange way of acting wouldn’t cause any panic. He walked in between the tables and said: “Let’s play a game. Let’s play murder.”

He asked the guests who they would kill at a wedding. Mrs Hudson sounded very disapproving when he said that Sherlock was probably a popular choice at the moment. Sherlock ignored her and kept speaking, trying to figure it all out. He decided to stop thinking about the murderer, but think of the target instead. Who could it be? And why here of all places? It was someone who could only be killed here today. Someone who didn’t get out much. Sherlock thought about it and then he remembered. He remembered how John had been so sure that James Sholto would be attending the wedding, but Mary had been a little suspicious of it. He remembered how James Sholto had told John that he lived in the middle of nowhere and suddenly it all made sense. The five women. The five women who had all met the Mayfly Man. Gardener. Cook. Private Nurse. Maid. Security Worker. They all worked for Sholto and one of them had told the murderer about the wedding. Still the question remained: How could one kill a person in public?

Sherlock walked past Sholto’s table and set down a note, carefully so that nobody else saw. He wrote nothing else on the note but “It’s you.” He knew that Sholto would understand what it meant. That was one thing less to think about. Now he just had to figure out how the murder would take place all on his own with little to no clues at all. Except he didn’t, because he got help from a very unlikely source. Archie, the young boy who seemed to be very fond of Sherlock, stood and called out his name. Sherlock thought nothing of it, but didn’t want to upset the boy and crouched down to his level, asking if he had a theory.

“The Invisible Man could do it!” He exclaimed. Sherlock was confused and asked him what he meant. Archie was nearly jumping up and down from excitement, as he explained: “The invisible man with the invisible knife! The one who tried to kill the Guardsman!”

And everything clicked into place from that small comment. The cases had to be connected. The Bloody Guardsman and today, were connected in a way Sherlock could’ve never thought of. He turned to look at the door, just in time to see James Sholto ready to walk out the door. He sighed and nearly ran up to the top table, to raise a glass for John and Mary. He needed not to panic. As the guests raised their glasses, Sherlock turned around to John and bent down to speak to him quietly: “Major Sholto is going to be murdered. I don’t know how, or by whom, but it’s going to happen.” He then turned back and started pushing his way past the guests. He didn’t check behind himself to see if John was following him or not, because if John felt the need to stay and protect his wife, then it just had to be alright with Sherlock, even if he had to face the murderer alone. For John, he reminded himself. It’s all for John.

But even as he told himself that he didn’t care if John was coming or not, he felt his throat closing up when he didn’t immediately see John when he made it out of the sea of people. Not because he was afraid to face the murderer, but because he felt so incredibly hurt that John would let him. But then, John came out of the door, running up to him and Sherlock relaxed almost completely. John cared about him. The feeling of euphoria was soon gone though, as they started to think which room was Sholto’s.  
“How can you not remember which room? You remember everything!” John snapped at him, pacing impatiently. It was extremely irritating and if this had been anyone but John, Sherlock would’ve told them to piss off by now. Instead he told John that he had to delete something. Turns out he didn’t have to, because suddenly Mary sprinted past them and said: “207.” Once again Sherlock understood why John had chosen her. He shook his head. He had time to think about that later. Now, he broke into a run, up the stairs and easily passed Mary. He shouldn’t have, but he felt an insane amount of pride for that. 

They arrived at the door of room 207 and Sherlock started rattling the door handle, calling out Sholto’s name. After a while of him and John trying to get him to come out of the room, he was quite rudely told to ‘Solve it’. Solve it and Sholto would open the door. At first, they tried to speak some sense into him, but when that didn’t work, Mary told him to solve it, because now “it mattered.” Sherlock told John to get her under control and John called him a drama queen.

“Now, there is a man in there about to die,” John grit out angrily and sarcastically quoted Sherlock: “The game is on. Solve it!”

John’s words didn’t feel good, but they worked. Sherlock began to think. The connection between the two cases. Bainbridge’s murder attempt. How had it been done? A stab wound, but no weapon and no trace of the killer. Then he realized it. He grinned to himself, grabbed Mary by her arms and kissed her on the forehead, smiling widely. John looked confused, so Sherlock started explaining.

“Major Sholto, no-one’s coming to kill you. I’m afraid you’ve already been killed several hours ago.” He said and was met with many confused noises from everyone around. He told Sholto not to take off his belt and explained that like in Bainbridge’s case, the stabbing had been done a long time before, through the belt. A small blade pushed through the belt and you wouldn’t even feel a thing. John finished for him and Sherlock smiled victoriously. Though that smile faded quickly when the door wasn’t opening and Major Sholto began talking about being killed in his uniform, how appropriate it would be for him. John was starting to panic and Sherlock recognized that desperation in Sholto’s voice as his own. The desperation of a person who no longer wanted to live. Then Sholto said that he felt like Sherlock and him were alike and Sherlock realized that perhaps he had a hint of that desperation in his own voice too. After all, a suicidal person recognizes another. 

“There’s a proper time to die, isn’t there?”

“Of course there is.”

“And one should embrace it when it comes--like a soldier.” Sholto said in a shaky voice and it hurt Sherlock to hear someone sounding like he must’ve sounded that evening when he had cried in Mrs Hudson’s arms. So, he replied: “Of course one should, but not at John’s wedding. We wouldn’t do that, would we – you and me? We would never do that to John Watson.” Because if Sholto had caught on to Sherlock’s depression, Sherlock had caught on the fact that, much like himself, Sholto had had feelings for John, more than those of friendship.

It all went quiet for a moment and John was prepared to break down the door. Sherlock was silently begging that this would end well. Not really for Sholto, but for John and selfishly for himself as well. Because if John lost a friend today, Sherlock could not bring himself to let himself go after the wedding. Then the door opened and Sholto stepped outside. He looked at Sherlock for a small moment, looking thankful before calmly saying that he needed medical attention. John said that he would be his doctor and quickly smiled at Sherlock. Sherlock’s heart hurt again and he had to close his eyes for a moment and take a deep breath, before following them.  
\-------------------------------------------------------  
Later the same night, Sherlock was rehearsing dancing with Janine. She was nowhere nearly as good as John, desperately needing someone to lead her, but Sherlock danced with her anyway because she was the only one besides John and Mary, he could tolerate here. They laughed a bit and it was actually a bit nice. Sherlock told her that he loved dancing and she smiled. She was kind. Of course, Sherlock felt nothing more towards her than possible friendship, like he had never felt with any woman, or well anyone but John. But she was still nice and Sherlock liked speaking with her.

Soon though, their chattering was stopped by John who walked over to them, looking annoyed. Jealous? No, couldn’t be, Sherlock was just hoping so. He was probably just still shaken up. Then Lestrade came around with the person Sherlock had wanted to see. The wedding photographer, who looked nearly as irritated as John for having to be here. He asked to see the photographer’s camera and then started to explain. He explained that a cameraman was someone who always hid behind his camera, someone people rarely paid much mind to. And in this case, also a murderer. He calmly took out a pair of handcuffs and cuffed him to the nearest place he could find, explaining to everyone that he was called Jonathan Small, a man whose brother had been killed in the incursion that James Sholto had lead. He tossed Lestrade his phone and told him to arrest Jonathan, sighing happily when the case was finally solved.

“Do you always carry handcuffs?” Janine asked him, her eyes sparkling with interest. Sherlock swallowed thickly, he felt extremely anxious and jokingly said: “Down, girl.”  
Small still tried to say something and Sherlock was just glad to get away from the uncomfortable situation. Small said that he shouldn’t have tried to be clever and Sherlock calmly told him that he should’ve driven faster. Then he offered his arm to Janine, who took it and they walked after Mary and John who had just left the room in a hurry.  
\-----------------------------------------------  
In a moment, Sherlock found himself up on a stage, playing the waltz he had written for John and Mary. He watched the happy married couple and tried his best not to cry. He glanced at Molly, who was looking up at him worriedly. Ah, so she had caught on as well. That was fine. He played the rest of the song, staring ahead blankly, willing the tears to go away. When he was done, his hands shook and trying not to cry was getting harder by the second.  
Still, he walked up to the nearby microphone and spoke softly, promising that he would be there for Mary and John, no matter what happened. Except that he didn’t just mention Mary and John. He had said ‘You three’. He wanted to bite off his tongue, but just fixed his mistake and told the guests to dance, He took in a few calming breaths before walking to the newlyweds, through the crowd of dancing strangers. 

Mary threw a puzzled look at him and he apologized, saying that he had made one unnecessary deduction and began explaining. Increased appetite. Change of taste perception. The fact that she had been sick that morning. All of the signs were clear to see. Mary was pregnant. John and Mary, the perfect couple, were going to have a child. Sherlock wished he hadn’t made that deduction at all.

Mary and John both seemed to be going into some sort of shock and Sherlock tried to calm them down, even when he felt even shittier than both of them combined. He told them that they would be the most amazing parents ever, even when his heart was splitting in half. When the situation calmed down slightly, Sherlock told them to dance, even when tears tried to gather to the corners of his eyes. Mary asked if he had anyone to dance with, but John said that the three of them couldn’t all dance together, since there were limits. Sherlock replied ‘of course’ even when he felt like he would’ve rather had John stab him than say those words. 

Still, Sherlock left them to dance and walked away looking around. A small distance away, he saw Janine and she smiled at him. He started walking over to her, but she pointed at a guy Sherlock had introduced to her earlier and continued dancing with him. Sherlock stopped. Nobody wanted to be around him, it seemed. He drew in a shaky breath, before walking away from the dancefloor, then out the door. He walked a safe distance away, before he let the tears fall. He stayed in the cold parking lot for God knows how long before texting Greg, simply: “Would you come outside? SH”

He knew he would regret this the next day but right now he needed a friend. A friend who wouldn’t think that he had some “other” thoughts, like Molly would. A friend who wasn’t drunk, like Mrs Hudson was. A friend, who didn’t have time for him anyway, like Mycroft. Even if Lestrade just gave him a ride home in complete silence, that would be okay. Sherlock just needed to feel like someone gave a shit about him.

He didn’t have to wait long, until Lestrade came out if the building and headed for the parking lot. He waved when he spotted Sherlock and walked over to him. Sherlock had thought he could stay strong, just calmly ask for a ride home, but when Lestrade asked if he was alright, he just couldn’t keep faking anymore. He sniffled and looked down as he spoke: “I think you must have noticed by now that--that this wedding wasn’t very easy f-for me.”

“Yes, I did notice,” Greg replied, sounding worried and placed his hand on Sherlock’s arm. Sherlock chuckled, but it turned into a sob as he started speaking: “I think you--you have probably notice that..During these past years I have...been different and that’s b-because, uh, I have--I have quite idiotically and hopelessly fallen for J-John Watson.”

Greg sighed and nodded, squeezing Sherlock’s arm. His eyes widened in shock when Sherlock looked up at him with tear-filled eyes. He hadn’t realized that Sherlock had actually been crying. He just now realized how much Sherlock was shaking too. But the worst part was what Sherlock said next, before completely breaking down, leaning against Lestrade and crying. He said: “I’m afraid I may not be able to keep my promise to you.”

Lestrade hugged him tightly, promising that things would get better, though he wasn’t sure at all. When Sherlock had calmed down, he took him home and helped him into bed. Then he stayed there all night, making sure that his friend was okay. Sherlock Homes would never go on suicide watch at the stupid hospital if Greg Lestrade could do something about it. He would save his friend again.

-I mean, who leaves a wedding early?-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AHH, I love Sherlock and Lestrade's friendship so, so very much.


	9. After the wedding

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> THe day after the wedding, Sherlock listens to a voicemail from John.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a filler-chapter in between The Sign Of Three and His Last Vow. I'm sorry this took so long. I don't really know how I feel about this, but I hope you like it anyway.

After the wedding, Sherlock was a wreck. He told Lestrade that he was okay and though he was worried, Lestrade decided to let him be. He made Sherlock promise that he would call later and Sherlock had promised, just to get Lestrade to go away. When the door closed after the detective inspector, Sherlock let himself fall into despair. He knew that Mrs Hudson hadn’t come home the night before, so she had probably stayed at the wedding place. So he screamed. He didn’t care if the neighbors heard him. Mrs Hudson could deal with them later. He screamed and punched the wall, again, again and again. He hated this so much. He hated his life and he hated himself. He tried so hard to hate John too, because that would’ve been so much easier than loving him and having that love tear him apart, but he couldn’t. His heart burned like never before, much like the tears burned his eyes. Then he suddenly became aware of the fact that he was in physical pain. He stilled and looked down at his hands. His knuckles were bruised and bleeding, the skin was ripped. It looked foul. Sherlock balled his hands into fists to stop them from shaking. It didn’t help much, they still shook like leaves. It hurt, but somehow it was relieving. It took his mind away from the emotional pain. He brushed a finger over the ripped skin and grimaced. He hadn’t relieved himself with pain in a long time and it felt so unfamiliar, yet comforting. Momentarily, Sherlock thought about how calming it would be to drag a knife across his skin and look as the blood blossomed to the surface like tiny flowers. But he couldn’t let himself go down that road again. He couldn’t possibly do that. He lifted up his sleeve and looked at the barely-there scars that crisscrossed his arms. Normally he wore a watch over the biggest one, on his left wrist, the one that had almost killed him, but now he had taken the watch off, he didn’t even know where it was at the moment. 

More than once, Sherlock had considered showing these scars to John and telling him that he wasn’t a fake. He hadn’t always been a fake. That he had been, and still was a very broken man who truly was only put together by John’s presence. But he had never done that. It was embarrassing. John would think that he was weak, for trying to commit suicide, not only once, but three times. Sherlock sniffled and pulled his sleeve back down. He sighed and felt the dull ache on his back that he had by now grown accustomed to. The torture scars still ached sometimes, but usually he could ignore it. He hadn’t told about those either. He had briefly mentioned that he had spent a lot of time in Serbia after his faked death and when John had asked what he had happened there, he had lied. John had also asked why he was so jumpy, one time, when he had come to wake Sherlock in the morning and the detective had fallen out of bed, with a loud yelp, then looked around the room in shock. Sherlock had lied that he had been in the middle of a strange dream and John had just startled him. In reality he had been in a deep, dreamless sleep and when he heard his name being called loudly, a door slamming open, he had been sure that he was still in Serbia. 

Sherlock fell back into his bed and winced at the sudden contact his back made with the mattress. He started up at the ceiling, before reaching out to grab his phone from the night stand. He opened it and huffed. Seven calls from John, two were at around 4.00 AM, so he’d been drunk that time, but the rest of them had been today, so maybe he was worried. There were also five texts from him and two voice mails. There was also a message from Mycroft, which Sherlock deleted before starting to go through John’s messages.

“Sherlock, where’d you go? I wanted to dance with you JW” 1:32 AM

Sherlock smiled slightly, though he knew that John had been drunk when he’d sent that.

“That’s pretty rude y’know? JW” 2:50 AM

Sherlock sighed deeply closed his eyes. He knew that he should’ve stayed.

“Sherl?? You R my best firiend and I wish uoy would be hre.” 3:45 AM

Yeah, definitely drunk off his arse. The message made him chuckle slightly though. Sherl. He found that he didn’t quite mind John calling him that.

“Sherlock, ignore my messages and voicemails from last night. They were stupid, I was drunk. Especially the voicemails, don’t even listen to them if you haven’t already. I don’t know what I was thinking. Still wondering why you left though? JW” 10.26 AM

This peaked Sherlock’s curiosity. What had John said in his voicemails? Now he definitely had to listen to those. Before that though, he read the last message that had arrived just fifteen minutes ago: “Sherlock, I’ve tried calling you. Where the hell are you? I’m actually getting worried here. You didn’t drive last night, did you? And why did you disappear all of a sudden? Just call me and tell me you aren’t hurt, please. JW”

Sherlock sniffled. John did care about him enough to be texting him. He promised himself that he would call John after listening to the voicemails. He needed to know what John had said, while he’d been drunk. Drunk people tell the truth after all. His heart started beating faster when he went to his voicemails. He took a deep breath before pressing on the first one that had arrived at 3:05 AM. It was mostly just loud music and John babbling something about how annoyed he was because Sherlock wasn’t there. Though, Sherlock had been expecting something more exciting, it did warm his heart when John slurred out: “It’s no fun without you. All of these people are so boring. You’re interesting and I wanted to dance with you.” He almost wished he had stayed, but at the same time it was probably for the best that he hadn’t. They both could’ve done something very stupid when drunk and Sherlock didn’t want to have his heart played with like that again. The first voicemail ended and Sherlock went to the other one. 5:47 AM, strange time, a lot later than the other messages. He let it play.

“I’m sorry, Sherlock,” The message started. The background was quiet now, so John couldn’t have been with the guests anymore. He was clearly drunk, but trying his best to sound convincing, when the message continued with the words: “I’m sorry. I don’t say that much, I-I havent said that before actually, but I am sorry. I really am. I’m sorry--You were so upset that one time, when we messed around and I told you it meant nothing at all. You were upset and I l-left you all alone. I heard you saying all those horrible things about--about yourself and I didn’t tell you they weren’t true. I was scared. I’m scared. Scared all the time because--because it wasn’t nothing. It wasn’t nothing, it didn’t mean nothing. It meant so much. I couldn’t think of nothing but you--for forever. I still think about you. I’m thinking about you right now and it’s my wedding night. I’m sorry for being scared. I’m sorry I can’t let myself--Yeah, I’m sorry. It didn’t mean nothing, Sherlock Holmes. You didn’t mean nothing. But now it has to--ugh, it has to mean nothing because I fucked up, Sherlock. I wanted to blame you, saying that, er, you threw away the chance we had, but I fucked up. I’m sorry. I lov--Yeah, I--You know, don’t you? I’m sorry,” then the message ended. The loud ‘beep’ a sign of that. The phone slipped out of Sherlock’s hand and fell to the floor. The screen probably cracked but the detective didn’t even notice. He stared ahead blankly. That had to be a joke. John had been joking with him. It couldn’t be true that John could feel something for him. For him. For Sherlock Holmes, who, at the moment, felt like the worst person in history. For his emotionally stupid, socially awkward, sad friend. It couldn’t be true. 

Sherlock listened to the voicemail five more times, trying to listen to a hint of amusement in John’s voice, a noise in the background, something that would tell him that this was a prank being played on him, but there was nothing. John’s speech slurred slightly, but he sounded so sincere, so honest that he couldn’t possibly be acting. Sherlock drew in a long breath. John Watson had feelings for him. Okay, John had feelings for him. He felt butterflies in his stomach. John had nearly said that he loved him. Their night hadn’t meant nothing to him. He needed to call John, they needed to talk about this. Maybe they could figure it all out. He picked up his phone again and ignored the crack on the screen as he went to his contacts and called John. John answered almost immediately.

JW:”Sherlock! Thank God you called, I’ve been trying to reach you all morning. Are you alright? Where are you? Please, tell me you’re alright.”

SH:”I’m alright, John. I was, uh, I was asleep. I didn’t hear my phone.”

JW:”You left early last night.”

SH:”I did.”

JW:”Why? I was worried sick. You didn’t say anything.”

SH:”I wasn’t feeling well.”

JW:”What, are you ill? Do you need me to come over? How bad is i--”

SH:”John. Calm down, I’m not ill.”

JW:”You said you weren’t feeling well.”

[Sherlock drew in a sharp breath anxiously. It was now or never.]

SH:”Emotionally.”

JW:”Emotionally? You were--you were upset? Why?”

SH:”John, I listened to your voicemails.”

JW:”Sherlock--”

SH:”No, let me speak. I feel the same.”

[He had said it. After years, he had said it out loud. And he felt relieved. Calm and relieved. Until John spoke again.]

JW:”I was drunk. Sherlock, that voicemail was a stupid thing I did while I was drunk.”

[Sherlock’s breath hitched and he struggled to find the words]

SH:”B-But--it had to mean something--you said--You weren’t lying, I could tell.”

JW:”Well, it has to, Sherlock. It has to mean nothing. I’m a married man.”

SH:”But you said--”

JW:”Doesn’t matter. It was stupid. Also, I’m quite certain that I made it clear that we no longer have a chance. There is nothing here for us. I love Mar--”

SH:”Do you? Do you love her, John?”

[Sherlock was fighting back the tears. He couldn’t believe that the happiness he had felt just moments ago was being flushed down the toilet. John didn’t want him after all.]

JW:”Sherlock, stop it now.”

SH:”Since the day I met you, John. I’ve had feelings for you since the day I met you and you can’t deny that you’ve felt it too. Not after you nearly told me you loved me. John, don’t do this--”

JW:”I don’t need to hear it, Sherlock. There can be no ‘us’. I’m happy with Mary and that is something we both simply have to accept. There is nothing we can do about the chance we both threw away.”

SH:”John--I-”

JW:”No, don’t. I’m sorry, Sherlock. I can’t talk about this anymore. I just can’t. I think it would be best if we took a small break and sorted ourselves out. I can’t screw this up right now. I need to think about myself for a change.”

SH:”John, I’m a wreck. Don’t leave me alone now.”

JW:”Two years, Sherlock. Two years, I thought of nothing but you. I thought you were deeply depressed, I thought you committed suicide, because I didn’t notice how depressed you were and now you waltzed in and I found out you weren’t depressed at all. You thought it was funny. It was a joke to you and I doubt you’re taking this seriously either. You’re not depressed, you’re just completely emotionally stupid, Sherlock Holmes. You’ll cope. I can’t do this, not with you. Goodbye, Sherlock.”

The phone beeped. The call was over. John had hung up on him. Sherlock let out a shuddering breath, his grip on the phone loosened. He tried to breathe, but he felt like his lungs had just collapsed. His hands were shaking again, as he placed down the phone. His legs gave out under the weight of his heavy heart and he collapsed onto the floor. John had left him all alone. John Watson wanted nothing to do with him. He gasped for breath, but he wasn’t sure if he was getting any air into his lungs. He wrapped his arms around himself and laid there. Severe anxiety attack. He needed to calm down, but he was alone now. Mrs Hudson wasn’t here. Lestrade wasn’t here.   
Mycroft...John...Nobody was there. Nobody cared that that Sherlock Holmes, was laying on the floor having an anxiety attack. Nobody would care if he died here. That’s really what he felt like. He felt like he would die. He wished he would. He wished that this time it wouldn’t be just a feeling, he wished that this anxiety attack would really kill him.

But of course, life wasn’t merciful enough to let him go. He didn’t know how long he had laid there, until that moment the anxiety attack passed. But it passed. And Sherlock was still alive. Broken and alive and so very sad again. He let himself relax and looked up at the ceiling. He couldn’t do this anymore. He didn’t have to do this anymore.  
That was the moment that he realized it. That he truly did not have to do this anymore. That he didn’t have to do this for John, because John didn’t love him. John didn’t want or need anything from him, so why was he still trying to get himself together. For himself? Why on Earth would he do that for himself? He didn’t need to. He sat up slowly and breathed in and out a few times. His legs only had to carry him a few streets away. He picked up his phone again. John hadn’t called or texted. Not a surprise really. 

Sherlock texted the number he hadn’t in years. He texted Lestrade too and said that he was taking a little vacation, away from London. That was a lie. He wasn’t going away from London, no chance. He just needed Lestrade to think that way. He stood, put on his coat and walked out to the street. He headed for the location he remembered so well, though he hadn’t been there in years.

He got a text back from the number he had written down as ‘Anon’. He took out his phone and looked at him, sighing and smiling sadly. How many years had he been clean now? For years. He had stopped taking drugs a bit after meeting John, so several years. Time to break the habit, he supposed. John was there no more, but there was one thing in this World that wouldn’t walk away from him and now he no longer had to keep ignoring that. Sherlock Holmes was going to let himself go. He was going to betray Lestrade’s trust, but he couldn’t bring himself to care, not without John. 

He arrived at the old, seemingly abandoned house and sighed deeply. Time to let drugs ruin his life again. He smiled slightly. Once again, he would be numb to these painful feelings again.

“Goodbye, John.”


End file.
